


Touch The Fleeting Chill Of Air

by nightmare_kisser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Doppelganger, Ghosts, M/M, teenage years, young adulthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes to visit the cemetery. But one day when Mycroft takes him, the ten-year-old boy finds a man sitting on a tombstone he claims is his own marker. And that he died during The Great War. Needless to say, Sherlock makes a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers of Hello

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Коснись мимолетной прохлады ветерка (Touch The Fleeting Chill Of Air)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656633) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)
  * Inspired by [It Feels Like Home When I'm With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/147654) by [etothepii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii). 



His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he is aged ten. He can calculate maths well above his years, he attends a well respected primary school, and every day his brilliant older brother, Mycroft, comes and takes his hand, walking him home.

"Brother," Sherlock remarks with a tug on Mycroft's sleeve one particularly misty afternoon. Overhead, the sun is straining to show its vibrant face from behind immense, forebodingly shadowy clouds. "May we visit the cemetery today?"

Sherlock adores the cemetery, the one located between his school and their home. It features many of those who served in the World Wars, and always has something of medical or scientific interest to the young, dark-haired boy. He isn't always permitted to go, but when he can, he tries to talk his brother into it. There is always something new alongside something incredible old to discover, and it's breathtaking.

"It might be a tad damp," Mycroft remarks with a sigh. He uses his free hand to graze his finely groomed chestnut hair. "So I won't stray from the path, but you may if you like. I'll keep an eye on you. We can't stay long, though; Mummy might get worried. You know how she is."

"I understand," Sherlock answers in his child's voice, but every adult agrees that it is one of the lowest voices they have ever heard on a little boy. He will be a rich-voiced man when he's older, they all say. Sherlock doesn't know why it matters, unless it's good for commanding people as well as his father does; in which case, then he is glad he inherited such a mood-leveling voice. "I won't be very long. I just want to see if there are any new ones, and I wish to get to W today with the First World War heroes' tombstones."

"Go ahead," Mycroft says as he opens the gate of the graveyard and releases Sherlock's small, nimble-fingered hand. It's already trained for the violin, piano, and flute, and can write cursive as fluidly as an adult. Sherlock is a rare child, Mycroft thinks. But then again, so is Mycroft. Their entire family is unique, rare. It's no wonder Sherlock's only friend is his older brother, and vice versa.

Sherlock has unusual grace for his age and doesn't slip or fall or dirty his knees as he jogs eagerly over to the headstones. Some are clean, polished, new; the soil stretching out from them still covered in grass seed, waiting to blend in with the rest of the graves. Sherlock lingers by these, tracing the family names of strangers and tip-toeing around the freshly turned dirt. Once, he was lucky enough to arrive during a burial, and it was so utterly fascinating to watch, because people are so funny with their reactions, and Sherlock likes to watch them, study them, put the information away for future reference.

The young boy follows the rows up and up and down and down until he comes to the slew of military stones, crisp and white but graying, getting a bit crumbled and worn. It's been decades since many of them were buried; over sixty years, in fact. And some of them would still be alive, maybe, if some tragic incident or another hadn't killed them. Sherlock likes to study the graves and see which ones tell the cause, or the location, or any remotely interesting fact. And if they tell none but seem haunting, Sherlock likes to look up the soldier's name in the records at the library, with Mycroft's help. Some of the ways they die is especially fascinating, and Sherlock loves the mystery of it all.

As Sherlock turns down another row, Mycroft not too far in the distance behind him, on the walkway, Sherlock stops and stands still.

There's a man sitting on one of the headstones, peering down at the ground, directly above where the body's head would be. He's looking at it, elbows on his spread knees, hands dangling toward the grass, and his head is bowed sadly, a hat in his left hand.

Sherlock keeps his pace slow and cautious. There is something not right about the man; he appears… transparent. The day is dim and misty, sprinkles of moisture able to be felt in the air like fog, but not hazy enough to be true fog, which means the transparent, softened look isn't being cause by the natural state of the day.

It leaves a tart, wet taste in Sherlock's mouth. He swallows, curls his unruly hair around his ear, tacking it back, and straightens his tiny, slim shoulders. "Sir," he greets, and the man doesn't look up at first. This gives time for Sherlock to look him over.

Now, Sherlock is pale, very pale. Most children his age play outside, get the fragments of sun London's weather allows, and are a healthy peach or pink. But Sherlock is not. He likes to remain indoors, reading, dissecting, playing with his chemistry set and miniature microscope, studying the cellular makeup of his hair and spit and cuticles and the like. So when he sees this man as thinks him as white as a sheet, it is not an exaggeration, because Sherlock knows pale, and this man is beyond so.

Worse still are his clothes. They don't look right. They appear as though they have come from another time period altogether. They are faint in color, washed out by the hue of the dismal day, and the man's hair is cropped short and is every shade of blond in one, although it is primarily golden-wheat, and the man's face reminds Sherlock of an animal he can't place at the moment, but it is endearing and handsome, this man's face, however it looks.

But one things bothers Sherlock: from this profile view, it looks as though the man is… wounded. He is hunched in a way that screams of pain and defeat. And one thing more: he doesn't appear to be breathing.

"Sir," Sherlock tries again once he is much closer, nearly at the man's side. He is about one grave away, and finally, the man looks up.

"Hello," the man says, and his voice is like the chilled cinnamon-apple-butter his grandmother makes during holidays, firm but sweet. "You can see me?"

"Of course I can," Sherlock frowns. "Why wouldn't I be able to see you? There you are, sat on the headstone. That is a bit disrespectful to the dead, don't you think? And you're dressed a bit like a military man, so why are you disrespecting a soldier's resting place?"

"Ah, well," the man says gently, and he looks away, body reclining slowly, like a breath of air. He places his hat back atop his head and rubs a tear from one eye, sitting up straight. He still isn't noticeably breathing whatsoever. "It's alright, because this is my headstone, and I can sit on it just fine without disrespecting myself, I think." He looks over at the boy and offers a sad smile. "What's your name?"

Sherlock blinks. _His_ headstone? "Sherlock Holmes," the boy introduces, and he holds out his hand. "I am ten years and four months old. I have lost all but two of my baby-teeth and I aspire to be a pirate one day."

"A pirate, eh?" the man chuckles. He stands and bends over just enough to shake Sherlock's hands without the boy having to stretch his arm upward. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I'm Captain Watson. I would tell you the rest of my name, but I can't remember it, you see. 'Watson' is all that's all that's on my stone, aside from the date of my birth and the year of my death."

Sherlock lets go of the man's cold, empty-feeling hand and peers down at the grave. Sure enough, it reads:

_Capt. Watson_   
_Born 1888_   
_Died 1918_

"…You are a specter," Sherlock breathes, glancing back and forth a few times between the words on the marker and the translucent man standing before him.

"Yes," Watson nods woefully, and Sherlock thinks the man would sigh, had he any lungs to sigh with. "I wish I could remember it, my life, but it is so well faded that it is difficult. And I have been walking amongst the living for decades now, wandering London, weaving in and out of buildings and moments, recalling only fragments. But I remember The Great War."

"World War I," Sherlock nods as he sits down on the ground and folds his legs into a pretzel. He peers up at the man and watched him sit down on the grave marker again, legs together this time, hands on his thighs, leaning over to maintain eye contact with his younger companion. "We learn about it in school, along with the other wars. 658,700 countrymen died in your war, but the casualties including the wounded and missing is much greater in total."

"That many?" Watson says, horror on his face.

"I memorized the numbers precisely. I like to collect facts and data and make educated assumptions," Sherlock confirms, and Watson is a bit astounded by how well this boy speaks for his age, his vocabulary incomparable. "I would be a masterful pirate; I would know all of my treasure to the pound and exactly where I had hidden it, all from careful study, planning, and stored in memory."

Watson gives a small smile. "I bet you would be. But with a head for facts and data and ideas, wouldn't you be better suited as a scientist, or a philosopher?"

"My brother thinks so," Sherlock remarks with a sigh. He gestures with a thumb behind him, down the row, where Mycroft is looking on the scene with mild interest, his umbrella (always prepared for the rain, he is; Sherlock doesn't care if he gets wet, so he never bothers with his own) acting as a walking stick to lean on. "He says I would be good at it."

"So do I, I gather. But you have plenty of time to decide what you want to be, and plenty more schooling to go through until you be it." He looks away, then, from the pale boy with high cheekbones and piercing eyes and scrawny limbs. The boy reminds him too much of his little sister, Harriett, and he misses her. She was just the same: all angles beneath the roundness of her youth, and her eyes shot straight through everyone she met. Watson clears his throat. "And there was a second Great War, and many conflicts afterward, weren't there, if I'm not mistaken? Always fighting, always losing men. And now they are teaching it to children as history, when it was all so new and current to me, and everything that followed was so dream-like." The man is strange, and a trapped spirit, and Sherlock thinks he would like to study him.

"There were," Sherlock murmurs. He looks thoughtful, gears churning, and when he pipes up, he bears an offer. "Do you want me to research you? I might be able to access more information about you, to help you remember."

"That would be wonderfully helpful, thank you," Watson says with genuine gratefulness. "No one has ever suggested that to me before, and one or two people have seen me and spoken to me. But they all were too afraid of me, in the end, to do anything for me. They disliked the idea of me being dead."

"On the contrary, I think it's brilliantly fascinating that you're dead," Sherlock says with a frown. "Why wouldn't they think it's fascinating? It's the paranormal meeting the scientific, and it deserves looking in to!"

"Thank you for thinking of it that way. You're fantastic," Watson says, and Sherlock feels himself blush brightly.

"I'm just smart," Sherlock mumbles. He's never been complimented before, outside of his family, which doesn't count because family is supposed to compliment and adore and gush over the kids of the family. He plays with his own fingers and stands up, fidgeting. "I should go soon or my Mum will worry. But I'll look up the British army records and search for you. Do you at least remember where you died? It will help narrow down my search in case there is more than one Watson from the First World War."

The ghost puts a hand to his chin and closes his eyes, humming. Opening them, he relays, " _Aisne_ comes to mind. I remember the word 'Aisne.'"

"There were three battles of Aisne, and judging by the date which you died, it must have been the third, because the first two occurred in 1914 and 1917, respectively, and your stone reads 1918. Pity; you were so close to reaching the war's end," Sherlock comments, his blush thankfully, finally receding. He clears his throat. "I'll start with the casualties of that battle, then, and hopefully I will find you, Captain Watson." And he does a perfect execution of a salute.

Watson's impressed. He smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he says respectfully, giving a little bow to the child, and he watches in amusement as the boy's blush flares up again.

"Just 'Sherlock' is fine. I'm not your equal," the boy reminds.

"Not in age or accomplishment, no, but you're the first person to stay in my company for longer than a minute, and that puts you on some nearer level, I believe," Watson says kindly, and Sherlock can only blink and nod his head.

"Okay, that's acceptable, I suppose," Sherlock murmurs, and he glances down shyly for a second. He smiles when he lifts his head again. "I look forward to visiting you again with information to give."

"And I look forward to receiving it. Until next time, Sherlock," Watson says, and he smiles again before vanishing into thin air without so much as a ripple in his appearance. Sherlock simply blinks, and his new friend is gone.

When Sherlock walks back to Mycroft and holds out his hand to grasp his older brother's, Mycroft asks, "Who were you talking to, Sherlock? I saw someone there, but I couldn't make them out well."

"His name is Watson and he's a captain – but not the flying sort; not from the look of his uniform, anyway – and he's from World War I," Sherlock grins. He chances a look up at Mycroft's face. His brow is raised in question. Sherlock's smile grows as he faces forward again, following the path at Mycroft's long-legged pace. "He's dead. A _ghost,_ Mycroft! Isn't it brilliant? I'm making him a case study. I'm going to research him, find out all I can, and visit him often enough to collect data from any memories he can tell me."

"I wouldn't believe you if I hadn't seen him myself, the way he disappeared like that without walking away or turning. Incredible," Mycroft remarks softly. "But we mustn't tell Mother. She would think we're playing games or have gone bonkers."

"Agreed," Sherlock says. He frowns, suddenly. "But you can't take this case from me, Mycroft; Watson is mine. I want to be the one to unravel the mystery, not you! Promise me you won't interfere," he says determinedly.

Mycroft chuckles. "I don't care much for the supernatural, little brother, so do as you wish. But if you need my help finding something, I won't decline." He snorts a chuckle as they close the gate of the cemetery behind them and continue home. "You make the oddest friends, Sherlock. First that skull Daddy brought home for you, and now a specter to match. You've always been morbid, but now I wonder."

"Nothing to worry about," Sherlock shrugs. "Living human beings just don't like me much. I'm too strange."

"You're ten. Everyone small and imaginative is strange," Mycroft points out, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"But I'm not imaginative; I believe in what I can see and touch and what others can see and touch as well, to make sure it isn't my mind going overboard. And you saw him, too, which makes him real, and you know how much I like direct facts. No child is like me, Mycroft. I'm… too old for my age," Sherlock says, his frown pinching between his eyes at the top of his nose almost painfully-looking. His face smoothes out when their front door comes into sight. "But it doesn't matter. I have what I need: you, Skull, and now, Watson. And myself, of course. I don't need anyone else. They're all too stupid compared to me, anyway. I would get bored of anyone else."

"True enough," Mycroft agrees. Because he himself is likable and charming and people look up to his brains and grades and he is very good at charming his teachers to always be in their favor when he needs it, but Mycroft doesn't have friends; children to associate with at school, yes, but no one to bring home to chat or study or do other friendly things with. He chooses not to; they're all very boring people to him, too boring to befriend.

Their mother greets them at the door, ushering them inside. "Come along, boys," she says sternly, "You're late, the tea's cooling, and it could rain at any moment. And if you catch cold, I swear on my mother's grave that I won't nurse you; you will have to attend school anyhow."

Mycroft smiles like flatterer he is and says, "Yes, Mummy," and Sherlock sulks and grunts, "Yes, Mum," under his breath as he removes his jacket. She seems satisfied, though, and her glower becomes a smirk as she leads them into the drawing room for tea and schoolwork.

And that is how Captain Watson became the future great detective Sherlock Holmes' first murder case. Because war is murder, and Watson was in war, and Sherlock has taken it upon himself to sort out the _how_ of it all.


	2. A Place Cold and Damp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is cold here. Damp here. It is lonely. His bones lie within his soul, and his soul lies in a world torn between the Living and the Dead.

"Cap't Watson, Cap't Watson!" a burly voice yells, and a body tackles him to the ground. Sound is muffled. Gas as thick as pea soup clouds in, itchy and eye-watering and iron is in his mouth. Foreign soil. Limp bodies. The one man pinning him down, trying to protect him. _Lieutenant,_ he thinks, and a tear floats in the pit of his eye. He blinks it back beneath the cover of his gas mask. It feels weighted and smoldering on his face.

The ghost jerks from the nightmare and finds himself in the darkness. He rolls over and touches his hand to the worn, decomposed bottom of his casket. He closes his eyes, the darkness there being no different, and the scent of earth is powerful around him.

It is cold here. Damp here. It is lonely. His bones lie within his soul, and his soul lies in a world torn between the Living and the Dead. He is Living, he supposes, in the sense that he is consciously aware of things and is not the sort of ghost that is an echo, a remnant left behind that plays itself over and over like a broken record with no real purpose or thought; but he is Dead, still, because he has no heart, no lungs, no flesh, no brain, no body of any sort, save for the bones resting here, in this coffin. His final place, his roots.

Were Watson a poetic man, he might give a beautiful and tragic metaphor relating to his situation, but alas, he is not. He wishes he were. He feels as though, in another life, he could have been one. Could have been a writer, could have recounted his army exploits in great detail and left hauntingly lovely tales for the world to enjoy in some autobiography of some sort.

But that isn't his life. He doesn't even possess a life anymore, not in any sense. He is but a figure, now. A figure people see in the corner of their vision but dare not reflect on because it terrifies them. Death terrifies all sorts, but the scares none more than the Living themselves.

Except, it would seem, for the peculiar boy Watson met a fortnight ago. He hasn't seen the boy since, but then, Watson hasn't been around. He's been floating in and out of his grave, unable to control when he appears, and has been dragged toward other spirits in other places a few times.

There is a gravitational pull to beings like himself. Trapped souls with a conscious mind orbit around one another and sometimes cross paths when a string is pulled, and the affect spreads out like ripples in a pond and touches all the nearby specters until they converge, memories being swapped on contact, and without names, they suddenly know one another perfectly, like lost friends.

Watson isn't entirely sure how it works, really, but this is the way it is. The flow is unreadable, but it is a stream that covers the Earth and carries the Living Dead with it. Oh, they may not be reanimated corpses, zombies or Frankenstein monsters, but they are, indeed, Living and Dead together, because they have thoughts and feelings but aren't truly _here_ anymore, not with a pulse or a solid form to call their own.

He would sigh, if he could. Instead, he relaxes his shape (he cannot call it a body, even if it looks like the one he has before, but with less color and a more grey-blue-green hue to it) and feels the ectoplasm coursing through his non-veins, flowing when he moves, not when any sort of heart beats. It is odd, this form, but he has grow used to it by now.

If Watson concentrates especially hard, he can feel himself fly apart. His molecules, if that's what they are – they feel like water vapor most of the time – break apart from one another, bonds broken, and drift off, covering more space and rising up through the dirt one by one until they reassemble on the ground above.

This is how he disappears and reappears. It takes but a moment to vanish, and longer to reassemble. But when he does, he finds himself blinking up at the English sunlight and he can smile once more. Which, by the way, is a feeling more than a movement, because everything he does is _sensation_ without actual _feeling,_ is that makes any sort of sense. It is an emotional thing to smile, a mental thing to smile, and it happens to show outwardly due to the fact that this _is_ his soul, the main part of his mind and metaphorical heart. But he can't, of course, smile with lips and teeth and cheeks, because those don't exist any longer.

It's all rather complicated.

Watson looks around. He's landed, upon reappearance, in front of a primary school building. It looks high-end and all of the children have uniforms; but then, most schools do. This one, however, has very _posh_ uniforms, very expensive, and just the _air_ surrounding the school reeks of higher intellect taught to the students.

Watson thinks that Sherlock must be here. He figures he might have a look, because something brought him here, didn't it? Sometimes pulled on his string and lead him here. All ghosts like himself have one, a little thread they can't see that tugs them toward one another, or toward psychics and mediums, or toward the few of the Living who can see them, has the mind to understand them, whether or not their reaction is fear or not.

He walks (although it hardly feels like walking; it's more or less swiftly gliding, but his 'legs' seem to be moving; so "walking" it is) over to the windows and has no trouble fazing through the brick and glass and stepping inside. He walks past many teachers and students, all milling about their daily life.

He pokes his head through doors, peering into classrooms, and finds youngsters and adults alike, but none of them are little Sherlock Holmes. None, that is, until he comes to a room on the upper level, in the back corridor to the left (if facing the front of the establishment).

There he sits, little Sherlock Holmes, in the front row of the class. He has to answer to every one of the teacher's questions, but he barely raises his hand because he doesn't care to answer because, judging by the expression on his face, the answer is too boringly easy. He yawns and sighs and crosses his ankles and swings his joint feet while he draws on his paper.

Watson steps into the room, unnoticed by all, and moves to peer down at Sherlock's drawing. It's a medical book-worthy sketch of the human digestive system, a bit raw in detail, but much better than anything Watson could draw. He stares, amazed, and looks at Sherlock's face.

The boy still can't see him, but there are goosepimples rising on his forearms that weren't there previously, so he can at least sense Watson, the specter figures. He takes a step back, studying the boy's face. He looks like he would rather be anywhere but in school.

Curious, Watson glides over to the teacher's desk and finds the grading book open. He scrolls down the names to _H_ and finds Sherlock's name, and pans across to see his grades.

Perfect letters, all of them. Impeccable grade point average for a primary school student. There is even extra credit listed, perking his grade even higher than one hundred percent.

Watson expected no less. The boy is a regular genius. But there is a comment at the end of the grades, in the box intended for extra notes: _Cannot work with others._

Now, that isn't fair or right. Some children don't work well with their peers, it's true, but not working with them at all? That is both rude and cruel, in his opinion. Surely there is a child here who can work with Sherlock without much trouble. Surely he has a friend and isn't entirely alone. Because, if not…

Watson feels a stab of pity for the boy. He glances up and sees the lay of the classroom from the teacher's perspective.

Sherlock is placed in a spot that is easily observed from the teacher's desk. A troublemaker's seat, where he can be watched carefully by the teacher to ensure he doesn't get up to anything naughty, like cheating or stealing from the other students or harassing them.

But Sherlock doesn't seem like a trouble-starter. So, perhaps, he is placed in front like this for his own safety, so other children don't cheat off of him or steal his things or bully him? It seems more likely, considering his smarts.

Watson steps away from the desk and makes his way closer to the door. He decides to test Sherlock a bit. He turna and walks down the length of the classroom, behind Sherlock and the other students, and at the far side of the room. He makes himself visible (or, rather, more visible for the ones who can naturally see him; not many people can) and he waits to be noticed.

It takes only a split second. Instantly Sherlock turns his head, craning his neck over his shoulder, and meets Watson's gaze. He is so observant that he noticed the slightest change in the room, could see even when he wasn't directly looking.

That's not a developed skill. That is inherited talent.

Color Watson further impressed with this young boy. He smiles, waves. Sherlock subtly lifts his fingers and twitches them in a wave no one else would notice. He turns back around, and Watson crosses the room, passing through students, earning not more than a brief shiver like one feeling a cool summer breeze, and crouches down in front of Sherlock's desk.

"You can write your responses so not to be obvious," Watson says quietly, "But I just wanted to ask how your day's been. Haven't seen you come by recently."

"I don't care what they think. And I talk aloud when I think sometimes, so they never pay attention anymore," Sherlock says under his breath, head cocked down as he adds a repertory system to his anatomically correct digestive system. "I've been to the cemetery almost every day. You weren't there."

"Oh," Watson says ashamedly. "I'm sorry. I can't always control when I appear."

"Why not? You've been dead for decades. Control should be developed by now, according to a majority of the ghost legends I've read up on since meeting you," Sherlock relays, still doodling, his voice level and perfectly subtle.

"It's more complicated than people think. They aren't able to tell many of the Living about it, and many of the Living aren't available to record it. But it doesn't work the way you think it should. It's not like having a physical body. I'm working with my soul and the spirit guide that tugs me in any direction I need to go. I don't know how to explain it any better than that," Watson informs the boy grimly.

"Hmm. Interesting," Sherlock says, and the small smile he gives Watson as he glances up indicates that, unlike most people, he means it when he says he finds it 'interesting;' it isn't a brush-off. This gives Watson just a bit of hope. Sherlock adds, "We have another twenty minutes until the bell, and then my brother is coming to pick me up. If you follow us home, I can show you the data I've collected these past two weeks on you. There's not much, but I am hoping it will trigger memory out of you that can fill in the blank spots. It'll be quite the experiment."

Watson stands and smiles at the boy. He nods. He drifts to the window and takes a seat on a vacant chair left in front of it. He sits down in a military pose, legs and heels together, and rests his hands in his lap, carefully folded. He gazes out the window while Sherlock finishes up his school work and the final twenty minutes pass by.

When Mycroft enters the emptied classroom, he glances up at the teacher, gives her a nod, and lets his eyes fall on the trapped soul. He gives the solider a nod as well before calling out to his brother. Sherlock runs up to Mycroft and shows him his drawing from earlier, a now complete human figure of organs and muscle. Mycroft grins, tells Sherlock that it's his best yet, and gives a curt, underhanded gesture, asking, 'Are you coming?'

Watson stands and nods once. Mycroft blinks slowly as if to confirm. Then Watson follows the two youngsters out of the institution and down the street.

"I wonder if Mummy or Daddy can see him like we can," Sherlock says excitedly. "Do you think they will like him if they do? Daddy always has been fond of the history of the World Wars…"

"We'll have to wait and see," Mycroft replies nonchalantly. "Although I do hope they can't see him; it might give them a fright."

"It didn't you," Sherlock points out, and at this, he glances over his shoulder at Watson and flashes a grin.

Watson chuckles. "No, you two are oddly unafraid of me, and it's nice, because I am still human, in every non-physical sense, so I don't know why anyone would be so terrified of me. It's not as though I would hurt them, or even could. I possessed someone once, but it was by mistake, and rather unpleasant for both of us."

"You can possess people?" Sherlock suddenly cries, letting fo of his older brother's hand and pivoting around to look at Watson with big eyes. "Incredible! Would you give me a demonstration?"

"I'd rather not."

"… _Please_?" Sherlock begs, eyes comically wide and pleading. They look very blue in this instant, very icy blue.

"Oh, now you've done it, Captain," Mycroft smirks. "Sherlock _never_ says 'please' unless he is being desperately manipulative."

"Maybe later," Watson concedes, his head drooping a little, like a sigh. He lifts his head again and runs fingers over his hair under his hat. "Just… don't expect it to last very long. And you'll have to give me a volunteer, because taking people by force make is all the harder, and I'm not very good at it to begin with."

"It will be a proper experiment," Sherlock says in success, turning back 'round and taking up his brother's hand again as he continues trekking down the sidewalk. "I'm happy. I won't be bored tonight."

"Mm," Mycroft hums in agreement. "Just leave me out of it. I want no part."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Like I would invite you anyway!" he huffs. "You'd just spoil it."

"That I would," Mycroft concurs with a different smirk, a teasing and sibling-rivalry cruel one. "Although, honestly, Sherlock, can't you find a regular playmate and play regular games? A ghost of all things. And a full grown man, no less."

"Children are too childish for me," Sherlock pouts, "And adults like Mummy's friends are too stuffy. Watson is just right."

"Except that he's _dead,_ " Mycroft reminds.

"I'm still here," Watson frowns. "Don't talk about me like I'm not."

"Oh, you shouldn't take offense; I'm merely stating facts and joshing my poor, misled younger brother," the young man says with a shrug. "It's not your fault he met you and forced you into his life."

"You shouldn't talk about him that way. Sherlock is a brilliant child, and many people don't appreciate him, and it's their loss," Watson says, further frowning taking over his features. He feels protective all over, as if Sherlock were his own blood relation. "You of all people should know that."

Mycroft stops walking and turns back to stare at the soldier, his mouth agape and his face generally aghast. "I… I'm sorry," he murmurs, and he looks down at Sherlock, who has a proud and grateful expression in his bright eyes. "I do know that. I know it very well, in fact. Sometimes I forget how… miserably true it is."

"Thank you," Sherlock says, stepping away from his brother to tug on Watson's coat sleeve. It feels like grasping a semi-tangible looking-glass. "But I don't need you to stand up for me."

"I felt I should," Watson says quietly. He can't imagine how many times no one has. He doesn't want to think about all the times Sherlock must have been bullied, harassed for being uniquely genius. A born loner. It breaks what's left of Watson's heart.

"Oh," Sherlock says like he doesn't understand why or what the point is, but accepts it as truth anyhow. He resumes his place and readies himself to walk, but holds out his small hand. "Walk with us? I don't like you trailing behind. Friends, my teacher said, are supposed to be equals. It seems logical."

Watson smiles warmly. "Of course they are, Mr. Holmes." And he accepts the proffered hand.

They walk the remainder of the path in silence, Sherlock holding Watson's hand and his brother's, walking between them with a bit more bounce in his short steps. And to anyone else, they wouldn't notice the way Sherlock's right hand is curled around what could be the space for an index finger, and they wouldn't think Sherlock was looking up at anything in particular.


	3. Craft and Wit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This requires further digging." He stands. "I need three lollipops."

"Oh!" Mrs. Holmes exclaims when she unlocks the door for her sons. "I wasn't expecting company. Who's this, boys?"

Well, this serves as a bit of a problem. But in the same token, perhaps it's can be beneficial. Watson clears his throat and steps forward, passing through Sherlock, who gives a bewildered shiver. Mrs. Holmes stares at him, suddenly in shock. He offers his best smile. "Hello, madam. I'm a friend of Sherlock's."

She blinks, takes a step backward, and opens the door further. "Come inside, then, all of you." And her face is slow to relax, but once it does, she's sighing. "Honestly, Sherlock, the company you keep."

"Sorry, Mother. But you can see him! Not many people can. I knew you would be able to, though. It seems only logical that if Mycroft and I can, you would as well, biologically. There must be something in our DNA that enables us to see the dead. Do you think it's our observational skills? It might be…" Sherlock rambles as his mother hums, nods, and helps her youngest son out of his coat and stoops to remove his shoes for him, since he doesn't seem on planning to while he's speaking so animatedly.

"Might be," she concurs in the end, and stands, dusting her hands on her thighs, and smiling at Watson. "Cemetery, I gather? That can be the only place Sherlock visits regularly that I can think of where he would meet a ghost."

"Indeed, Mrs. Holmes," Watson murmurs.

"Please! Maris works just fine," she replies. "And I thought I guessed right. Doesn't take much to figure. I know my boy, and it seems only natural that he would find something as otherworldly as you and bring it home. I swear, if dragons existed, I would find it on his bedroom floor, either being studied while he took notes, or dead and being dissected for its secrets," she says with a laugh, as if it is nothing unusual. "Now, then. Which does he have intended for you?"

"For study, I think; can't quite dissect a body like mine that can become completely intangible at any moment," Watson says, hands clasping behind his back as he follows the woman and her children into the foyer. Mycroft immediately takes his bookbag and announces that he will be in his room, doing his homework. It won't take him long, Watson thinks. Both boys are so clever.

"Fascinating," she says in a breathy voice. "You truly are dead, then, aren't you? From your uniform, I'd say you were killed in action during World War I."

"Correct again, madam," Watson says. He can't bring himself to call her by her given name. It doesn't seem right.

"Remarkable," she says in the same breathy voice. She eyes him and cocks her head. "And despite that, you aren't a malicious spirit. In fact, you are nothing like the horror stories people tell and suppose about ghosts. You seem very…"

"Human," Sherlock supplies as he takes a seat on the lounge in the foyer. His mother sits in an ornate armchair, resuming the cup of tea that is on the small table beside it, a floor lamp on the other side. This is the perfect sitting room for a nice book or a bout of piano. A quick glance shows Watson that there is, indeed, a piano in the spacious room, near the far side.

"Yes, thank you, dear," Mrs. Holmes says with a smile. "He seems quite _human,_ as if his traumas haven't left him bitter at all."

"Well, I can hardly remember them, which could be why," Watson shrugs tensely. He steps/glides over to a free chair and takes it, Sherlock watching him and the exchange with his mother intently. The specter pretends not to notice. "And I have had years to accept them and move on."

"Then why, I wonder, are you still here? Aren't ghosts supposed to pass on to Heaven or Hell or wherever souls go after death, once their issues have been resolved?" Mrs. Holmes questions with a frown.

"I can't say," Watson says with conviction, his hands in his lap tightening into fists. "It could be that my 'unfinished business,' as I am aware many people refer to ghosts like myself having, is yet incomplete, but I don't remember what it is, and therefore can't do it. For some, it's accepting that they _are_ dead. But I know I am, and I am as alright with it as anyone can be who has been in my state for as long as I have. It could also be as simple as recalling the exact nature of my death, but then, it could be something else entirely. I've no clue."

"How tragic," Mrs. Holmes states as a fact, as if she can't quite feel it as in depth as the word suggests. "I pity you, if that isn't offensive to say."

"Not at all," Watson agrees. "I pity myself sometimes. I'm in a pitiful situation: dead, unable to pass on, lingering between worlds, and all with very little memory to go on. It's very pitiful."

"That's why I want to study him, Mummy," Sherlock pipes up, and both adults turn their gazes on the raven-haired boy. "I want to see if I can solve him. He's a puzzle that needs a solution, and I think I can do it."

"And I have every faith in you, dear, because you are very clever, but isn't this a bit over your head? He's a lost soul, not a Rubik's cube," his mother reminds almost tartly, a slight frown on her delicate face. Watson can see where the boy gets his eyes and high, prominent cheekbones from.

"I know _that_ , Mother," Sherlock glowers with a folding of his arms over his chest. He looks away. "I wanted to test myself. It seems like a plan beneficial for all. If I am capable of unraveling Watson's secrets, he might pass on, and that's a good thing, right?"

"Yes," Mrs. Holmes has no choice but to agree. "But how do you plan to go about it?"

"The same way I go about doing everything," the boy states simply, "With craft and wit."

"I thought as much." She sighs and glances over at their guest. "He is very determined, and there's no stopping him when he sets his mind on something. Whatever profession he chooses when he's older, he will be ruthless with it, and a workaholic, I'm sure," she says like it's the most tiring and amusing thing in the world. Perhaps it is. Watson gives a small smile. She goes on, "What do you remember, Watson?"

"War, but not the specifics of it; only glimpses. I remember treating injured men," he says thoughtfully, hand touching his face. It feels as hollow and chilly and dull as it ever does. "I know from my tombstone that I am ranked as a captain. I remember being close friends with one of the lieutenants. Little else, I'm afraid. I know I had a sister, and I recall her name being Harriet. She was unwed when I left to serve. And I remember that I died at the age of thirty. But that's all."

"You didn't tell me all of this before," Sherlock marvels. He abruptly stands, dashing off while calling out, "Watson, come! You have filled a blank, and now we have much to discuss!"

Watson glances at Maris briefly, giving her a look he feels should look something akin to asking permission to excuse himself.

Mrs. Holmes chuckles. She picks up her teacup and keeps her eyes trained on it. "Off you go, then; it's best not to keep my youngest waiting. He is very opposite his brother in his patience."

"Thank you, madam," he mutters as he stands and tugs down on his jacket, straightening it out.

"My, you're so civilized. I hope you can teach my son a thing or two about manners and appropriate timing for things. He is awful with social conduct. It's no wonder he never brings home any friends." She glances up at where Watson stands in the middle of the rug, and she smiles further. "Oh, he's been taught plenty, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of asking too many questions and analyzing people when they don't wish to be, and often offending them with his rudeness. And while I think it's adorable and endearing, he _is_ my son, and I feel awful that he has no one."

"I'm here for him, now," Watson assures her quietly, "If it isn't wrong to say so. I can watch over him for you, talk to him. Be his friend."

"You already are," she says. "Thank you for that, Captain Watson. You are a noble man."

"I wouldn't go that far," Watson says shyly, and he would blush if he had any blood or skin. "But thank you for your kindness."

"Better not keep him waiting any longer," she replies, and she picks up a novel on the chair, tucked to the side of her lap. "He'll be yelling your name in a second."

" _Watson_!"

His head snaps in the direction of the stairs, and then he looks back at the woman in wonder.

"Mother's intuition," she remarks. "I know how he is. Go, now."

He merely nods and proceeds to the stairs. They are carpeted and there are pictures lining the wall parallel to the wooden handrail. He lingers on the stairs, walking slowly, looking over the photographs. Not black and white, he notes. Full-color. Each and every one is of Sherlock and Mycroft, and there is only one family photo, and in it, their father looks stony and holds himself very tall, which only adds to his intimidating height, because even on paper Watson can tell that the man is much taller than the deceased captain, and this most likely means Sherlock and Mycroft will be rather tall when they grow. It would bring a smile to Watson's face if looking on the sharp features of their father didn't give him chills.

Oh, the irony of a ghost getting chills. Watson would laugh if it weren't so eerie.

"There you are!" Sherlock states once Watson reaches the top of the stairs and turns toward the hallway above. There is one room on the left side, and three on the right. The isolated bedroom is clearly the parents' bedroom. And the three on the other side must be Mycroft's room, Sherlock's room, and, perhaps, a bathroom? Seems correct.

"Here I am," Watson attempts at humor as Sherlock walks forward, grabs the spirit by the sleeve, and tugs him down the hall. He feels nothing but the pulling sensation; no warmth. He wishes he could; he misses, above all things, the feeling of heat, any form of it. The sun, a radiator, a living body. Until he died, Watson never realized how valuable the sensation was.

Returning from his distractions, Watson steps into Sherlock's bedroom. He takes in everything he can, looking around as he roots himself to the doorway, Sherlock releasing him and glancing back unsurely, as if looking for approval.

There is a toy box, but it does not contain any usual toys. It is open and partially empty, but the contents of it are clear: puzzles, a chemistry set, a colorful cube (Watson wonders if this is the one Mrs. Holmes mentioned), odd things that look as though they could be used to construct almost anything, and tool sets used for, what Watson hazards a guess, dissecting animals and picking locks. There is a bookshelf in the room as well, and it contains many tomes that are as thick as Watson's forearm and larger. Medical textbooks, mathematic textbooks, encyclopedias, dictionaries, and so on. There is even a book on phobias, and many how-it-is-done, how-it-works, and how-it-is-made sorts of books.

The most normal object in the room – because the human skull on the shelf near Sherlock's bed is certainly not normal at all – is a stuffed animal on Sherlock's bed, lying between his pillows. But unlike any child Watson has ever heard of, the stuffed creature is not a bear, or a rabbit, or a cat or dog; it is, in fact, a plush of a bat. A _bat,_ of all things.

The colors of the room are simple: dark blues, whites, and greys with accents of black. The furniture is all oak and unstained/unpainted, but polished. It smells like clean cotton in the room, and faintly of the sugary, plastic-like scent of children.

The specter steps into the room fully and smiles down at Sherlock. "You ought to clean up."

"Oh, um, yeah," Sherlock murmurs. Surprisingly, he turns around and hurriedly picks up his playthings and scattered journals and sets them into his toy box and onto other surfaces. He haphazardly tidies his bed and opens his curtains to let in the light. When he returns to his place in front of his unusual friend, he fiddles with his hands. "Is that better?"

"Infinitely," Watson chuckles, patting the boy's head. "Now, then, what is it you wanted to tell me?"

"Here, sit down on my bed first, and I'll spread it out for you to make it clear," Sherlock says excitedly. He gathers up books and his journals and removes sheets and opens to bookmarked pages and lays it all out on the floor at Watson's feet, where he sits on the side of the bed.

"My, where did you get all of this?" Watson murmurs.

"Some of it is from the library," Sherlock says, "And some of it I had my father collect for me from some records he has access to. He works with the British government," Sherlock adds a tad edgily. He clears his throat and explains before Watson can ask, "I told him it was for a school project. He didn't question it, knowing how I am."

"I see," Watson nods. He moves his hands in an opening gesture. "Well, then, tell me what you discovered about me. I really would like to know."

"You full name is John Hamish Watson II; it's a family name, one of your father, and most likely one that will be used again, even if only in part, for one of your descendants. You were deployed to be the head medical officer of your regiment. I wasn't able to find the exact number of your troop, but you were part of the British IX Corps under the control of Lieutenant-General Sir Alexander Hamilton Gordon. I was also able to find that you were dispatched for France on the thirtieth of April. The first day of the battle was, of course, on the twenty-seventh of May, just under a month afterward. They decided to send all the British divisions to the frontlines, which might explain your death. You would have had no choice but to be right in the line of fire when the 4,000 enemy guns were fired on the four divisions of British IX Corps."

"I don't recall the artillery as much as I recall gas," Watson mentions vaguely, his eyes closed in thought.

Sherlock nods. "There was a follow-up attack with gas, as a matter of fact," he says like he's proud of the ghost for remembering it. "It was meant to disable the defensive gun crews, but gas is more uncontrollable than gunfire, and it spread to more than the intended places. It's no wonder if you got a brush with it."

"But I had a mask. They prepared the medics with masks so we could dive into the clouds and save men who stood a chance," Watson recalls, eyes startling open. "It can't have been what killed me if I had a mask."

"Hmm." Sherlock steeples his small hands and presses them to the curve of his bottom lip and chin. He closes his eyes. After a moment, he opens them, and looks down at the remainder of the information. "This requires further digging." He stands. "I need three lollipops."

Watson cracks a smile. "Whatever for?"

"The sugar to jumpstart my thinking processes," Sherlock explains as he heads for his door.

Watson stands and steps through the papers, not disturbing them, and wonders, "Yes, all right, but why three?"

Sherlock shrugs, as if it's obvious. "Because," the boy explains, "It's a three-'pop problem."


	4. Experiments of the Lucid Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your state of being could be precisely what will make this work! We won't know until we try the experiment. So, please, Watson: lie down and close your eyes," Sherlock instructs.

The stick of his third lollipop still protruding from his lips, Sherlock paces around Watson in a full circle. "Can you sleep?" He ceases pacing for a moment to wave his hands in the air. "–No, no no; scratch that. The better question is: can you _dream_?"

The ghost glances over his shoulder as Sherlock continues to pace around him like a vulture. "I can, in fact."

"I presumed as much. From what I can tell, dreaming is more or less the brain's way of recapping events and restoring the psyche. And since the psyche is more related to the 'soul' than the brain, I deduced that it would be a feature that carries on after death to continue to revitalize the soul." He takes a quick breath, then plows onward: "Now, considering this, I have a theory that if we can put you into a hypnotic-like state, you can lucidly dream and recount to me what you dream of. There may be memories hidden in there, vital clues to what is yet unknown about you."

The ten-year-old says this so quickly that it takes Watson a minute to catch it all. "I don't think I can be hypnotized. Not everyone can, and I don't even have a mind to go into a trance with."

"Your state of being could be _precisely_ what will make this work! We won't know until we try the experiment. So, please, Watson: lie down and close your eyes," Sherlock instructs.

Watson feels a bit strange lying down on the boy's bed with his hands laced together over his stomach, but he does as instructed. He sees a map of the world on the world on the ceiling for a brief moment – it matches the framed periodic table on the wall, he supposes, and it's amusing that a little boy has both in his room – before blackness rises to meet his vision.

He can feel Sherlock hovering just to his right. Sherlock waves a hand in front of Watson's face; Watson can feel the buzz of energy moving. There is a subtle hum that every person has, and Watson can sense it best when he isn't looking. It's like the frictional force of repelling magnet poles passing by one another. It's what happens when two souls come into close proximity of one another.

In a way, Watson can track Sherlock's every movement, even without seeing him. But he tries to focus on the boy's voice instead.

"I've read two books on hypnosis in the past, and I'm not sure how you will respond to the different methods – which leaves a bit too many variables for my liking, but it will have to do – but we must keep trying until we succeed. I don't know how else to extract memories from you; sensory memories triggered by objects or scents won't work with you. So this is our best bet," Sherlock's voice drones on. It's strange to hear a child speak this way, but Watson thinks that he's growing accustomed to it.

"Understood," Watson murmurs sleepily in response. "But I must warn you: sometimes I come out of a dream in a different place I began. My form has a flow, like I mentioned before; sometimes I get pulled away from where I am to be someplace else. I'm not stable."

"I remember, and I have that factored in to consideration. If you think ghost lore is of any use, I might draw a circle of salt around the bed to keep you tethered here until we're finished. Some salt circles are said to ward off spirits; others said to keep them to one area. If there is any truth to it, it might help," Sherlock suggests.

"I have my doubts, but whatever you think might help," Watson remarks indifferently.

"I don't believe in the superstitious and it seems scientifically incorrect. It is simply myth. I was only going to use it as a placebo effect if you thought it would help, but since you doubt it, then I won't bother with it. We much simply hope you don't vanish," Sherlock replies. "Now: focus. Or, rather, become unfocused. You need to be mentally pliant. Let any subconscious images and sounds come to the forefront of your consciousness."

"You make it sound as though I still have a mind," Watson muses.

He imagines the child rolling his eyes. "Arguably, you do. For all we know, the thoughts of the mind are located in the soul and not the brain at all. How else would you be half as intelligent as you are post-mortem?"

"A valid point," Watson hums. He's beginning to feel the drowsiness that comes with lapsing into his dreams. It's a different haze than what he recalls experiencing during the late, exhausting nights of his life. But it's familiar over all these years, the alternate form of 'sleep' that takes him and holds him captive for a few hours or days at a time, sweeping him off into dangerous and vaguely reminiscent places.

"Can you still hear me?" Sherlock's hopeful, childish voice cuts through the haze like a beacon of light in a storm.

Watson finds that he can't speak. He twitches a finger instead. Sherlock doesn't miss it.

"Good. Now, I want you to sink into the first thing that shows itself. But I need you to be able to speak to tell it to me, so imagine that there is a direct feed from your dreams to your mouth. Narrate accordingly," Sherlock guides with a tranquil tone.

Watson unlocks his voice like a safe and lets the current take him.

"I see trenches, men clad in uniform."

"Good, good," Sherlock whispers, and Watson can faintly hear the slurp of the lollipop drawn into the boy's mouth. Muffled, he adds, "Give me more. What else?"

"Muck everywhere. Mud like soup. Rats, disease; men coughing, hacking, choking. Some on gas, some on filth, some on their own blood. Bodies pinned atop bodies; gunfire exploding everywhere."

"The Third Battle of Aisne. Carry on," Sherlock notes, and Watson thinks he hears the boy write something as he kneels on the floor near the bedside.

"A lieutenant. He feels like a friend. He calls out to me."

_Cap't Watson! Cap't Watson!_

"Merely an ally? Or one of your division in the Corps?" Sherlock questions.

Watson is vaguely aware that his brows are furrowing. "No, more than that… a true friend. I've known him for a better part of my life. We enlisted together. Trained side by side together. Fought together. His name…"

_Lieutenant Rogers! Leave me!_

_Don't pull that on me. I'm not going anywhere._

"…Was Rogers. James Rogers."

"I've seen that name before," Sherlock remarks, subdued. Watson faintly hears shuffling and more writing, and the slip of a lolly falling to the ground. But the images won't stop.

"He's tackling me to the ground. I have a gas mask on. It's hot and itchy and too heavy for my face. I'm sweating, and it's stinging my eyes. Jimmy won't let up. I keep telling him to let me be; he needs to worry about himself. I'm a doctor. I'm meant to save his life, not the other way 'round."

"Slow down, Watson, I can't write that fast, even in shorthand," Sherlock grumbles in frustration, but the soldier can't stop now.

"He drops my title and speaks to me as a friend. I'm blacking in and out, but I can make out his face sometimes, and his words."

_John, stay conscious! Dammit, stay conscious! It's not that bad. Look, I'm worse; I've broken my legs. I'll die here in this ditch. But you're not that bad._

"He's wounded."

"Who, again?" Sherlock prods, voice showing no emotion but intrigue. "The same lieutenant?"

"Yes. Rogers. His legs are broken; shot to Hell. He can't remove himself from me. He was hit in the dive he made to save me."

_Get this thing off your face; breathe, breathe. Are you all right? John?_

"He's talking to me. Trying to keep me stable. But I've a painful wound in my chest. Something… something searing and thick with blood. It's… God, it's everywhere. I'm bleeding out. I can't breathe. The weight of the mask is gone, and Jimmy is screaming for another medic, but the trenches are sloppy and I'm sinking."

Sherlock is suddenly quiet.

_Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You're going to die on me, aren't you? You always have to press on, don't you, you fool? You always have to be the martyr. Of course you must; you're a bloody doctor, that's what all the best ones are when they're doctors: ruddy martyrs. Damn it all, John. What is your wife going to think when your telegram arrives?_

"…I was married," Watson whispers sadly. "For the life of me, I can't picture her face. I can only see James' as he looks down at me while I expire beneath him. He charged at me, but he didn't pin me soon enough to dodge whatever bullet – or bullets – struck me."

"And this is how you die," Sherlock says. It should be a question, but it isn't.

"No, no… I remember a hospital after that," Watson frowns. "I remember a tent of some kind, and people working over me. I remember Jimmy lying in the cot adjacent to mine. Someone rescued us from the lines; they had accents. American? I can't tell; I feel drugged from the pain," Watson whimpers, and he can feel traces of it, the pain; it was so agonizing that he was screaming, hoarse and frail. Jimmy was silent. Jimmy had no legs after his knees. Amputated. He'll have to walk with crutches or wear falsies, or sit in a wheelchair for the remainder of his life. John remembers feeling immense sorrow for his friend.

"You were treated, then? Or did you die while they operated on you?" Sherlock ponders aloud, his voice hushed.

"Don't know…" Watson says, and he feels himself drifting in and out, caught in a tide. Any moment, now. "Everything is… going white…"

"Watson!" he hears the boy gasp, leaping to his feet. "You're fading! Don't leave; we need to experiment more, need to gather more memories! Try to think of me, of my room. Try to stay," he says hurriedly, but Watson hardly catches a word of it.

And then, like smoke, he billows out and blows away, dissolving into the air.

Sherlock falls against his bed. His hands land on the mattress where Watson's ghostly form had been seconds before. His tiny fingers clench into the sheets.

"Lost him," he grits out before sighing heavily. He closes his head, leans back, lifts his hands from the bed. He rubs them over his face. Then, with careful precision, he jots down a few more notes, straightens his shorts and school jacket, and loosens his uniform's tie. "Well, there is always next time."

And he picks up his fallen lollipop and tosses it in the bin.


	5. Searching For You In Places I Cannot See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Sherlock thinks it's better not to feel any sentiment for anyone, even one's own family, to spare oneself the heartache.

"I haven't seen your friend in a while; why hasn't he been back?" Mrs. Holmes questions her youngest son one evening, over supper. Her face is devoid of emotion, and her voice is mildly curious.

"I can't find him anywhere," Sherlock says after a pause long enough to give time for Mycroft to finish eating, excuse himself, and take care of his plate. Sherlock has hardly touches his own food, and his mother is pretending to be gazing down at her food, but she is clearly peering up at him from beneath her makeup-coated eyelashes.

Mr. Holmes isn't at home, currently. He's working late tonight. Sometimes Sherlock thinks the man purposely avoids his own family. He's positive his mother and older brother also think this, but chooses not to voice it. Sometimes, Sherlock wants to be the one to ruin everything and say it aloud, 'Father ignores us! Father loves his work more than us! Why did he even have children, then? Why did he even marry? Why, if he never comes home to see us unless we're in bed or at school?'

But that would be unwise. It would be highly frowned upon to say the truth aloud.

So they all eat in near-silence, and they all pretend that the absence of Mr. Holmes isn't painful.

(Sometimes, Sherlock thinks it's better not to feel any sentiment for anyone, even one's own family, to spare oneself the heartache.)

"You can't find him?" his mother asks, frowning. She glances up fully. "It's been over a month."

"Yes," Sherlock answers swiftly.

"Do you think he can't manifest himself any longer? Do you think he could have passed on?" Mrs. Holmes wonders aloud, speaking for her son.

Sherlock glances down at his plate of food. Roast beef with mashed potatoes and greens. Heavy food that will slow down his brain. It disgusts him. He pushes the plate away, virtually untouched, save for the greens. "Highly probable," Sherlock concedes quietly. "But whatever the case, he will come back. He's my friend, and he's a moral person. He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye unless it was a mistake. And when he returns, he'll most likely apologize."

"And will you forgive him?" his mother wants to know.

The boy ponders that for a while. Then: "Yes. Yes, I think I will."

"Why?"

"Because he's the only friend I have. If I want to keep it that way, I must forgive him. There's no other logical response than to forgive my only friend."

Somehow, this saddens Mrs. Holmes more than anything else. She resumes eating and doesn't protest when Sherlock wraps up his meal, sticks it in the icebox, and walks away.

.:0:.

"I look around my classroom a lot, hoping you'll appear like you did that one day," Sherlock confesses to Watson's headstone. "But you've been gone for a year now. I changed classrooms. I don't think you'll show up any time soon."

He kicks at the dirt, dry from the past week without rain, and sits down for a while, his ankles overlapping, his knees up by his chest, his arms wrapped around them. The boy, aged eleven, has been visiting the soldier's grave twice a week for the past six months.

He hasn't given up.

.:0:.

"Sherlock."

The boy snorts awake and jerks his head up to find Mycroft standing over him, an umbrella shielding them both from the drizzle.

"Mummy was distraught when she didn't find you in your bed this morning," Mycroft scolds tightly. "You're fortunate Father is away on business, lest he would have found you missing and been furious. He might have struck you."

"Mum would have stopped him," Sherlock sniffs, wiping water from his nose. He yawns, stands, and dusts off his pajamas. "Will she tell him about this?"

"No. But it begs the question: how many times have you snuck out to his grave in the early mornings?" Mycroft questions, his jaw hard and his tone continually reprimanding.

The twelve-year-old shrugs. "A few times. Not often." He sighs. "I look for him in the corner of my eye every day. I search for his face in shadows, in the crowd on the tube, in the house, down alleyways. Everywhere. Why am I so desperate to see him?"

"He was your friend, Sherlock, and a puzzle. That makes him special," Mycroft supplies quietly.

"Yes, fine. But then…" Sherlock bites his lip. "Why is he taking so long to come back to me? It only took a fortnight before. Where has he gone? Has he forgotten about me?"

"I daresay no one can ever forget about you, as hard as they may try," Mycroft replies with a sigh of his own. He holds out his hand. "Come along, then, little brother."

Sherlock slaps his brother's hand away, shrugs his hands into his pockets, and treks back home on his own. He doesn't want to think about how much he could use Watson's kindness and advice in his life right now. He doesn't want to think how incredible it would be for the ghost to appear right as Sherlock is being harassed at school to scare away his tormentors.

He tires not to think about it, but he can't seem to stop himself.

.:0:.

"I miss you," Sherlock confesses in a small whisper. "I know you were real. I didn't fabricate your being in my mind; Mum remembers you. Mycroft remembers you. My father doesn't know about you, but that's all for the better. He wouldn't like you, I don't think; he would say that you're too good for me, that you're wasting your precious time with me. He thinks this of everyone regarding me, including himself. He doesn't know why anyone puts up with me. I am very difficult to befriend, and even harder to live with. Sometimes I wonder if anyone loves me at all. Sometimes I think that I'm better off if no one does."

He presses his forehead to Watson's tombstone and touches the rough texture of the white rock.

"Come back, please. You were a colorful thing in a dull world, and I could use some mystery again. I could use a friend, someone who cares. Mycroft acts like he does, but I think it's by default, since no one else will. And Mum is my mother, so she doesn't count. I want _you_ back."

And, like always, Captain John Watson's ghostly form doesn't appear, and Sherlock, freshly aged thirteen years, sighs and leaves the cemetery again.

.:0:.

"I don't care if he never shows his face again," a moody fourteen-year-old Sherlock grumbles under his breath.

"You don't mean that," his mother frowns. "You liked him. We all did. He was a sweet person, for a specter. And for all we know, he is trying to find his way back, but is struggling to do so. Don't give up hope, will you? A Holmes is better than that."

"You're right," Sherlock's smug and bitter reply echoes back. "Which is why I'm deciding to be better than hopeful. Hope is for ordinary people. And I'm not ordinary, so I don't need it." And he curtly gets to his feet, stalking off in the direction of his bedroom.

Maris simply sighs and returns to her reading. She can't argue with him on that.

.:0:.

"He died while in intensive care," Sherlock remarks one evening to Mycroft.

The older boy looks up from his studies and gives a puzzled frown. Then, quickly, realization dawns on him. "Watson's death? When did you find this out?"

"Records I missed in my haste as a child," Sherlock remarks calmly. "It lists him right here. He was tended to by French nurses in an intensive care tent not too far off from the battle he was wounded in. He lived for three weeks in a coma before passing. His family was told that he was killed in action, but they never learned the exact nature of it, and his body was buried in France. It wasn't until after the Second World War that he was recovered and brought home. But his family doesn't even know he's buried in that cemetery with the others."

"You're implying that this could be his 'unfinished business?' He needs to alert his living relatives of where he's buried, so they can pay their proper respects?" Mycroft asks for clarification.

"Yes," Sherlock concludes, shutting the tome on his hand. "After that, he should be able to move on to Heaven or Hell or wherever it is people believe souls rest."

Mycroft doesn't answer for a spell. He merely licks a finger, turns a page, and runs a thumb over the crease of his textbook. Then, finally: "If you see him again and track down his family to do this, what will become of you?"

"It's been years since I've seen him, and I hadn't known him for very long," Sherlock answers coldly. "It won't matter an ounce to me. I will be unaffected."

"I highly doubt that," Mycroft replies quietly. His voice is oddly understanding as he goes on, "I think, in the end, you don't want him to pass on. I think you wish, even now, that the reason he hasn't returned isn't because he's already gone. You secretly want him to stay with you, be your friend for as long as you're alive, because you don't think anyone else who is living will be that for you."

Sherlock slams the book down and walks away.

The truth smarts more than Mycroft will ever know, and pains Sherlock more than Mycroft ever intended.

.:0:.

Three days since his conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock is walking along the path that passes the cemetery. He debates before approaching it if he should go in, just one final time, and see if Watson isn't standing there as he used to, as if no time has passed at all.

It's a ridiculous thought, completely illogical and full of too much hope, something Sherlock swore just a year ago that he didn't need.

But as he nears the front gates, an odd chill runs through him, as familiar as Watson's hand in his, and he feels compelled to push the gate open and walk onto the premises, taking a deep breath as he does so.

.:0:.

Watson comes back to himself after a long while of swirling in the darkness, feeling his form shift amongst water-like fluid in the lapse of everything around him.

Somewhere in the mix, he met a wailing spirit of a young girl, perhaps of seventeen, who was soaked to the ectoplasm and couldn't seem to stop crying. He spoke with her for a while, and in the end, helped guide her back to her roots somewhere in Sweden. He righted the wrong of her drowning. When he left her, she was burning brightly with a light on par with the sun, and she smiles and became dry and airy and beautiful, and she moved on.

It's not the first time Watson has cured the ail of a fellow spirit, and it might not be the last. He is a doctor even in the Afterlife, it seems, and even the Dead need to be cared for. And, more often than not, his thread is tugged and he's brought to them, and he is always there to aid them. How can he refuse, when it is the moral thing to do?

Once, and only once, Watson met someone from the same war he was in. But the man was a victim of war, not a solider from it, and was killed during a raid of his village in Germany. Watson helped him find peace as well by getting him to see his family and tell them of his death. This was some time during the nineteen thirties, before the next war. He hasn't met anyone from his own time period since.

And now, returning to his grave bed, John (and he is so relieved to be able to think of himself that way again, as someone with a full name) settles down onto his marker much like he had been when Sherlock met him, and he relaxes and removes his cap.

How long has it been? How long was he gone? Sometimes, when he leaves and wind up aiding other ghosts within his destined path, he is missing from London for years on end. For all he knows, Sherlock is an old man by now. There is no way to tell for sure; everything in the cemetery looks the same, and the street just in the distance with the buildings around it also appears as unchanged as ever. The cars whizzing past seem a little changed, but then, Watson can't be sure, because automobiles were a new thing when he was alive, so every year's slightest improvement to the design throws him off.

John would sigh if he could. He glances around and decides to stand. He paces the length of the tombstones, reading each one, finding that some bear names that are hazily familiar. He wonders if he served with any of them, spoke to any of them. He wonders if he saved any of their lives before they met this end anyhow.

He wonders…

He freezes in place, floating centimeters from the ground for a moment as his eyes land on a figure walking up the sidewalk toward his row.

It's little Sherlock Holmes. It has to be. But he looks much taller, much leaner, and his dress is vastly dissimilar from the last time John saw him.

When the lad spots him, his face lights up and he jogs over to the specter, slowing to a stop a few paces from him. His face is that of sheer surprise, but it seems pleasant enough, as if he had doubts, and the mere sight of the dead soldier has eradicated them.

"Watson! I had an odd inkling that you would be here today. I thought I ought to investigate; and look, here you are!"

"Sherlock," Watson blinks, staring. "How old are you? How long have I been away?"

"You don't know?" Sherlock says, tilting his head. "Interesting. If only I could study the nature of your disappearances for a measurable amount of time. It might reveal a pattern." He waves it aside. "No matter. I'm fifteen, Captain. It's been five years."

"Five years," the ghost gapes. He feels a wash of shame. "I'm sorry to have been away so long," Watson replies meekly. "I had promised your mother I would keep an eye out for you, that I would stand by you as a friend. I have failed you both."

"I was fine on my own," Sherlock sniffs, looking away. "Come, then. My father might be home, but I could care less. I wish to speak to you, and I have spent enough time in this cemetery doing so, without a response, over the past few years. Now's the time for a proper visit, I think."

"Oh," Watson murmurs apologetically. "Yes, I agree. Right behind you." And he takes long strides to keep up with Sherlock's steps, noting idly that they are the same height now, and in a few years, Sherlock will most likely tower over the dead army doctor.

He tries not to think about it, and especially tries not to linger on the fact that he unintentionally abandoned this boy, his only friend in years, for such an extended period of time during such a crucial point in the boy's young life.


	6. In The Heart That Still Beats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks he can feel the thrum of Sherlock's soul-energy beneath his palms; he imagines he can feel the heart of the two of them that can still beat.

"I'm home," Sherlock calls out to the household, stepping in and toes off his shoes. He hangs his coat up and shakes snowflakes from his hair. It had started to snow halfway home, but, of course, they had passed straight through John without so much as a shiver.

Mrs. Holmes greets them first, her head popping out of the kitchen. She stills when she sees John standing beside her son. "Oh… hello, dears," she says, and a smile soon blossoms on her surprised face. To the soldier, she adds, "Long time no see."

Mr. Holmes is, in fact, present. He makes himself known when Sherlock moves into the sitting room adjacent to the entranceway. He says nothing; he waits for his father to acknowledge him. He doesn't so much as clear his throat. He simply walks in, stands with his hands clasped behind his back, and maintains a perfectly nonchalant facial expression.

"Good evening, Sherlock," his father states tonelessly, his voice a deep rumble from the center of his chest. He glances up from the newspaper and looks Sherlock over. Down at the paper again, he remarks, "You have dirt on the seam of your trouser bottoms. Went to the cemetery again, have you?"

"Yes, Father," Sherlock answers stiffly. Watson is standing directly beside Sherlock, but his father gives no indication that he can see or sense the army doctor there at all.

"What were you looking for there? You have no one to visit; none of our family is buried there," Mr. Holmes says heartlessly, eyes scanning the page, reading. "I don't like you going there."

Sherlock lifts his chin defiantly, inhaling as if to speak, but his breath catches as though he can't voice it. Watson lightly touches the teen's wrist for moral support. This seems to give him confidence, because Sherlock says, "I have a healthy respect for the dead. And after Carl Powers –"

"Carl Powers," his father hisses, tossing the paper angrily to the side, folded and crumpled. His voice becomes a low roar. "Carl Powers _drowned,_ Sherlock! When will you let that go?"

"It wasn't natural!" Sherlock shouts back, fists clenched tightly at his sides, and Watson jumps and soothing lays his hand between the young lad's shoulder blades. "His shoes were missing; and a boy like that doesn't forget shoes he loved as much as those!" he argues, and his father's eyes narrow and become like daggers, and for a moment, Sherlock backs down, shrinking in on himself, and it's a painful sight for the ghost to see.

"One day your fascination with the dead will come back to haunt you," Mr. Holmes says at last, after the echo of both their voices has died down. He settles against the back of his chair and folds his strong hands into his lap. "Now, out of my sight. Help your mother with dinner, or do your homework, if you have any left to do."

" _Gladly,_ " Sherlock grumbles as he turns on his heel. Watson silently follows, and out of earshot, Sherlock whispers, "He can't see you. I have a theory about that: only those who accept death can see the Dead. A majority of the world's population fears, rejects, or disrespects death. They dislike it and avoid it at all costs, especially seeing and hearing and thinking about it. Which, I think, explains why so many can't see you, and even the ones who can revert and run away after all because they accepted it before, but once faced with it, cowered from it."

"A sound deduction," Watson murmurs. "Yes, I daresay that makes sense. It would explain a great deal, anyhow."

"My father is proof," Sherlock answers. "He brought me home the human skull I know you've seen and might remember from my bedroom, but only because I asked for it for my studies, and, secretly, for company as someone to speak to who would listen. But he hates death, fears it; he dislikes that I am so interested in it, and lately, he's been giving me a hard time for my involvement with the Carl Powers case."

"Who is this Carl Powers, by chance?" the ghost asks as they walk up to Sherlock's room. The boy is blatantly disobeying his father in helping Mrs. Holmes with the cooking.

"I didn't know him personally," Sherlock says, "But he's been all over the papers. An athlete, a trained swimmer, drowned in the public pool during a swim meet. How could he be careless enough to drown when he hadn't gotten any wounds, like bumping his head? And they couldn't find his shoes. Why wouldn't he have shoes to change into? There is something highly suspicious about it all, but like the police, my father thinks it's a foolish endeavor."

"I don't think it is," John returns with a frown. "I think you're onto something. That poor boy, though; who would mean him harm?"

"That's difficult to say," Sherlock shrugs as he enters his bedroom. "Some athletes can be bullies. He could have picked up an enemy that way by harassing an unstable child. Or, perhaps, someone from an enemy team meant to hinder him so their team would win, but accidentally killed him. The possibilities aren't endless, but there is certainly a number of them."

It's odd watching Sherlock as he mills about his room, collecting stray items and more or less putting them away, most likely because of what John said in the past. He smiles warmly, because, in a way, Sherlock hasn't changed; he is still as intelligent and mature as before, but with the same immaturities when it comes to his obstinate personality. It's endearing, but also perspective-changing; the spirit can't entirely look at Sherlock as an odd-but-charming child any longer; he's quickly developing into an odd-but-charming _young man_.

"Now, if you please, can you tell me where you were these past five years? I'm curious, because more than once, I… had doubts," Sherlock admits. He doesn't expand the topic, merely plops down on his bed, long legs stretched before him and crossing at the ankle, his hands behind his head, and gestures for his translucent friend to take a seat in the desk chair adjacent to the bed.

The room, John notes, has been made to accommodate the addition of a workspace and chair, and it's a nice improvement; it gives the bedroom a more adult feel to it. The toy box and stuffed bat are missing, but the human skull remains on the shelf, and the color theme is yet unchanged.

The solider takes the proffered chair and sinks onto it, his semi-touchable form feeling nothing but firmness beneath it. But, somehow, the room feels warm, even though he knows it much be an illusion, because he hasn't felt anything in decades.

"I was pulled away by that thread I spoke to you about before. Do you remember? I would be surprised if you did, seeing as how –" he begins, and Sherlock cuts him off.

"I have a fantastic memory. I've constructed a mental house in which I store memories. When I am older and need more room, I will most likely reconstruct it to be a mansion or a castle or a palace, depending on my needs. But for now, I have all sorts of things stashed away for future reference, and you will be pleased to know that you have your own closet in the hall," Sherlock says proudly.

"Do I? An entire space dedicated to information about me?" Watson says with a grin. "I'm flattered, Sherlock."

"Flattery was not my intention," Sherlock mumbles, glancing away, and that _can't_ be a blush; it must be the ghost's eyes playing tricks on him. Teenagers may be easily embarrassed, but Sherlock is no ordinary teenager, so that can't be right. "Anyhow, you were saying before I made you digress?"

"Ah, yes, that's right," Watson murmurs, "I was explaining the thread. Well, you see, that force guided me to a girl roaming much of Europe. I helped her find her roots in Sweden and find peace. I watched her go into the Light, helped her pass on after her unresolved issues were amended. And then I sought a way home, to London."

"And this took you _five years_?" Sherlock questions a tad darkly, and Watson clears his throat; or, at least, mimics the sound.

He frowns. "Yes, I suppose it did. Time is… How shall I put this? Time is, ah, not the same when you are dead. It becomes… distorted. Yes, that's the word: distorted. To me, it felt like a few months, but not more than perhaps seven. And yet it was five years for you. I hardly noticed the pass in time, and hardly felt much of it, as I was caught in a drift for much of the time, and paralyzed during some of it. I cannot control this body well; it is not flesh and bone and blood. I can't monitor it always; there are times when I have to let it do as it pleases, taking me where it drifts."

"…I see," says Sherlock, following a silence. "I'll make note of that. You don't know how long you will stay in any place at any one given time. But you will, however, always return to London, England, because it is where your body is buried. And it is where you grew up."

"Precisely," Watson nods. "That's what I've come to understand about myself, anyway. I sometimes have to look for a way home, and sometimes I simply stumble back, but I always return. –Unless, of course, I move on. If my soul moves on, then I think it's certain that I won't return then."

"Naturally," Sherlock agrees quietly from behind prayer hands. He looks momentarily upset by the thought of losing John like that, missing him permanently, and the specter tries not to think about the implications. But Sherlock suddenly leaps into sitting position, hands falling flat onto the bed on either side of his now-pretzeled legs. "So! I have news for you regarding your death."

"Oh?"

Sherlock nods, gets up, finds the records he's looking for, and moves close to John to permit the man to read along over Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock points out the conditions of where the doctor died, how he was buried and moved, and how his family (past and present) is unaware of the whole exchange.

"This could be what you've been looking for," Sherlock informs the other. His face is very intense; it looks five years older for a moment, and that alone jars Watson a bit more than it should. "Finding your family, knowing if any of them can see you, and then telling them about you might trigger your true passing, and you can finally be at rest."

"That sounds… lovely," Watson says. But he feels conflicted; as nice as it would be to find solace in a stable state of being and perhaps reunited with those he's loved and lost after all these years, he can't help but wonder what would become of Sherlock. The teen still has no friends; that much is evident. And he would hate to leave the boy behind. He wonders, vaguely, if there are rules to being a ghost, and if his 'unfinished business' can change from his initial reason, and if that happens, he questions if that means he will never be able to find true peace.

Sherlock nods curtly, face blank and eyes moody, and turns away, shutting the ancient tome with a click of his wrist. "Good. We can begin tracking your family members as soon as you're ready."

"And in the meantime?" the doctor wants to know.

The lanky boy smiles. He brushes back his fringe from his forehead. "Oh, well, you can stay here, if you like. I could use the company, and I'm ninety-five percent sure that my home is much pleasanter than a cemetery."

"Indeed it is," Watson chuckles as he stands from the desk chair, stepping side. He ruffles Sherlock's hair. "Stay I shall, then. But if your father asks about your speaking to me…"

"Oh, he won't," Sherlock dismisses with a wave of one pale hand. "I think aloud to my skull and myself in general quite often. He won't think anything of it. One-sided conversations are common occurrences with me. It's a perk to being my friend, I suppose; you can talk to me all you like, and if I respond while someone who can't see or hear you is in the room, they won't think a thing of it."

"Doesn't that make you sound a bit… mad?" John worries.

"Nonsense," Sherlock replies with a smirk. "My mother knows you're real, and so does my brother. And as long as they don't think me mad, I'm perfectly safe from being sent to an asylum, if that's what concerns you."

"They are nasty places," Watson murmurs.

"They've improved since your time. No lobotomies, for instance," Sherlock assures as he fixes his hair and turns to pick up a sketch journal from his desk. Still doodling anatomy and other biological things, John notices with a hint of a smile. Sherlock adds as he sits down in the chair previous occupied by his ghostly friend, "Anyway, many of my peers already think me insane and have grown used to it. They have deemed me a freak and a bookworm, and it suits me just fine. I am a unique and eccentric knowledge-seeker, and I am proud of it. It only goes to show that their intelligence is far below mine, and that I neeedn't be bothered by their ignorance."

It sounds like the speech of someone so low on self-esteem that they have built a wall of narcissism to block the self-pity. It makes Watson ache, and he hopes it isn't too strange when he caves to the instinct to embrace the boy, hollow arms falling over his shoulders, clasping over his chest, and his chin settling down into the mop of dark hair atop Sherlock's head. He thinks he can feel the thrum of Sherlock's soul-energy beneath his palms; he imagines he can feel the heart of the two of them that can still beat.

"You shouldn't be. They will never know how amazing you are, so don't even give them a second thought."

Sherlock tensed at first, but after hearing this, he softens, sinking back against his chair, his head leaning back into the quasi-solidity of the soldier's form. His eyes are closed. "…Somehow, I don't think you're lying simply to comfort me. Your opinion is biased, of course, on account of our friendship, but not a lie."

"No," John answers in a whisper. "I wouldn't lie about this."

"No," Sherlock agrees solicitously, his index finger touching his chin, his eyes opened part of the way, "I don't think you would."

And they stay like that until Mrs. Holmes calls down her sons for dinner.


	7. Ghost on a Leash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He crosses the street, and Watson follows closely behind, trailing after him like a dog on a leash. And it would be demeaning were they not friends, and were Sherlock not on this outing to aid the soldier.

"I'm going to the library to see what I can find about your family. Do you wish to come?" Sherlock asks while he ties his scarf around his neck and dons his gloves. He is a miniature of his father, but with more delicate features like his mother, and still the lingering hint of youth in his face and vague awkwardness to his body that keep him from looking too adult, despite his mannerisms.

It's a paradox that earns a smile, because Sherlock seems the type to appreciate when others tell him how mature he is, but he must hate being a resemblance to a man he seems to respect, but loathe. Watson nods his head. "I will accompany you, yes. I'm curious."

"Then come along," Sherlock remarks, turning on his heel and opening the front door. He calls out, "Library, Mum!" and faintly, her "All right!" in response can be heard echoing through the abode.

John tags along behind Sherlock, making no effort to keep up with the fifteen-year-old. He has a bit of a bounce in his step, a confidence, and the air surrounding him makes him seem impervious to those around him. Save for the ghost himself, he supposes. But other than that, no one bumps into Sherlock on the streets. No one crosses his path. They seem to subconsciously stray from the boy, and in turn, the boy struts right past them.

It's never-endingly interesting to observe this young man, the doctor affirms to himself. He doesn't think he would ever tire of watching Sherlock's methods of dealing with people and puzzles and life. Whatever is thrown at him, Sherlock seems to bound right back into play, hardly shaken for too long.

His thoughts would be different, had he known about Sherlock's behavior for the past five years that Watson has been gone.

"This way," Sherlock guides, and he purposely doesn't address the spook by name to seem casual to anyone listening. He crosses the street, and Watson follows closely behind, trailing after him like a dog on a leash. And it would be demeaning were they not friends, and were Sherlock not on this outing to aid the soldier.

They enter the library and surf through the newspaper records first, trying to dig up anything remotely related to any Watsons. It proves difficult, because they are a generally low-brow family without much agenda, save for the few of them that served in the wars.

In fact, about all they could find are names of Watsons serving through the ages. World War I: the deceased man peering over Sherlock's shoulder. World War II: a younger cousin of John's. Vietnam and Korea, family members both distant and close to John's blood who settled down in America and were recruited after gaining citizenship. The list is small – perhaps three men and one woman from his family who served – but it says a lot.

Watson stumbles back from the screen magnifying the different newspaper articles and puts a hand to his face, shaking his head. Sherlock doesn't notice at first. He only notices once he realizes the cool presence behind him has left. He turns sharply around in his chair, worried for a moment that his friend has vanished completely. But when he spots him, leaning against a bookcase, Sherlock stands and walks over to him.

"It can't be that stressful to know. Some families are natural-born soldiers. They want to serve in the army of whatever country they belong to because is becomes their standard, something they find honorable."

Watson groans and throws his hands into the air. "Yes, but I was the first to serve in my family since the Revolutionary War with the Americans! I set a precedent; I know I did. And now a handful of my family is dead because of me. We found all of those in the _obituaries,_ young Holmes. I have indirectly sent my own to the slaughterhouse."

Sherlock seems to study him, his eyes tracing John's face, the boy's own carefully blank. After a moment, he turns, gathers his discarded gloves, scarf, and coat, and drapes them over his arm before charging down an aisle.

Watson looks up, blinking for tears he cannot generate, and skates clumsily after the boy, perhaps knocking down a book, and if anyone sees the object move on its own account, they don't make a scene about it.

"Sherlock?" John calls, scanning rows for the teen. "…Sherlock?"

The boy reappears in front of the dead man, and Watson halts in place. It's a British history book, one they might have at public schools. Sherlock stares the spook down as he moves to a nearby table, slams the book down (ignoring and shushes geared toward him), and searches the table of contents for a page number. Then he flings it open, zooms a finger down the page before stopping at a particular line in a paragraph.

Thanks to the efforts of doctors in the service like P. Carter, J. McNabb, J. Watson, S. Riley, and M. Smith, over 5,600 British lives were saved during the The Great War.

John stares at the sentence for a lasting breath, and then turns to peer sideways at his young friend. "I'm… in a history book?"

" _Yes,_ " Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. "Of course you are. In this book in particular, whoever was the author for many passages like this one, liked to name the 'little people,' the countrymen who made a difference but are rarely named. I've checked the records of these doctors, including yourself, and the number listed is actually off by a couple hundred. Between merely the five of you, five ordinary doctors in one war, you've saved about 5,800-or-so lives in total. So don't start thinking the way you just were. It's irrational and absurd, considering how many other lives you've helped preserve."

The boy shuts the tome and tosses it aside, leaving it on the table. He stands, slips on his coat, and does up his buttons. He fashions his scarf around his neck again, but forgoes his gloves, choosing to simply tucks them away into his pocket.

"Now, then, we can go. We found all we could here." And he makes to leave, but Watson catches the boy by his coat's sleeve.

"Thank you," he murmurs, eyes trained on the teen's eyes. "You were proving a point, but it was a hidden kindness."

Sherlock shakes the specter off and turns around. "It was nothing of the sort. I'm just preventing you from being useless to me; if you're depressed, I can't very well make you cooperate. Because, next, I'm going to need you to scour London. With your abilities to disappear and reappear without being seen, you can easily look at houses and flats with families names listed on the buzzers, mailboxes, and etcetera, for your surname. And while the numbers are slim that we will find them that way, it is a last resort we may have to come to if my own searches prove fruitless in finding the address of a Watson."

"We could check the house I grew up in, or where my wife lived before I –" John tries to suggest, but Sherlock clicks his tongue, and it silences the apparition.

"No. I have already searched both places during your five-year absence, hoping to find you, or someone who might know of you. No one was there," the young Holmes remarks.

"Oh," Watson murmurs. He looks away. "All right, then. Sorry."

"You were only offering suggestions. You can't apologize for something you didn't know was already looked into," Sherlock sighs, as if it's physically a strain to reassure people.

"Where are we headed now, then?"

"Home. There's nothing more to be done today," the other replies.

John follows without another word.

.:0:.

"Find anything useful?" Mycroft pipes up as he walks into the kitchen around the same time Sherlock and his ghostly companion walk through the front door.

"Not much, no," Sherlock grinds out in frustration. "If you ever stumble across something useful, brother, do please share it, because I may or may not have bitten off more than I can chew with today's technologies. I wish there were a way to better search for the information I need."

"One day there will be," Mycroft smirks as he comes back into view with a slice of cake on a plate.

"You're going to get fat," Sherlock snorts. "And I will thoroughly poke fun at you when you do."

"Mummy didn't want it to go to waste," Mycroft sniffs in his own defense. "And this is my longest weekend away from university until holiday break. I will indulge if I wish."

"Whatever," Sherlock shrugs. He whips one arm out of his coat, and such abuse won't stand with such nice fabric.

"Here, let me help you," John chuckles as he eases Sherlock's coat the rest of the way from his body. The teenager tenses and the lighting is wrong, because it looks like he's blushing again.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbles, and immediately heads for the staircase while John hangs up the item on the coat hanger. He half-floats toward the stairs, but Mycroft's eyes catch hold of him.

"…What?" the soldier asks with a raised brow.

Mycroft looks mildly amused. "Nothing. Just that Sherlock is very fond of you. Fonder than he is of anyone else; possibly more than he will be of anyone in the future, either. He wouldn't stand to be babied like that, having someone remove his coat for him, unless he was extremely fond of the person, too much to mind."

Watson blinks. "We're friends. That sort of thing is commonplace between friends."

"Not when it comes to Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft states plainly. He picks up a bite of cake with his fork and slips it into his mouth. After a swallow, he says, "Or did you think it was normal that he gets embarrassed around you easily?"

"He's a teenager. He's prone to bouts of embarrassment," the older man defends.

"Perhaps," Mycroft shrugs. "I'm only saying that you should… consider his feelings, that's all. Not many people do, and I'd hate for him to get the wrong impressions."

"How would I give–?" John sputters, utterly lost, and frowns after the university student as he walks away. He scratches his head under his army cap and runs the same hand down his face and stifled a grunt of aggravation. Just what the hell is Mycroft implying?

Shrugging it off, Watson continues up the stairs, having so real choice but to follow Sherlock wherever he goes, Sherlock being his only worldly attachment at the moment.

He finds the boy throwing a small rubber ball at the far wall and catching it as it returns to him where he lies on his dark blue duvet cover. "Had a chat with Mycroft?"

"Er, yes," the soldier says with what he hopes is indifference.

"Mm," Sherlock hums. He acts like he doesn't care, still tossing the ball as he asks, "What about?"

"Nothing of importance," Watson replies coolly. "Bored, are you?"

"Painfully so," Sherlock agrees. "I do most of my homework at school while the teacher gives lectures. And what I don't finish then, I completely within an hour, never more, after coming home. Weekends are no exception."

"Don't you have any chums you could ask to do something with?"

"No," Sherlock answers as if it were obvious. "A few of my classmates are amiable enough, I suppose, but I don't care for them. They're ordinary and utterly boring. I am entertained more by this rubber ball than I would be if I went on an outing with one of them."

"That's… depressing, Sherlock," the spook says gently. "Am I truly your only friend?"

"I prefer it that way," Sherlock answers around an extremely hard throw of the ball. It strikes the wall too hard and doesn't come back to the teen; instead, it bounces off of Sherlock's headboard and plunks a few times on the floor before rolling to John's feet in the doorway.

John picks up the ball, turns invisible, and makes it hover in the air across the room until he places it in Sherlock's open palm, the boy half-sitting up, eyes searching the air, trying to find the figure instead of watching the ball.

Sherlock's face looks like that of a scientist observing the camouflaging of a cuttlefish and wishing to recreate it. "How can you do that?"

"Don't know," Watson replies as he materializes once more. "If I think of myself as nothing but the air, my form becomes completely fluid, and things pass through me. If I think of myself as invisible, as nothing at all, I become so. If I focus, I can still hold onto things when I'm in the latter state, and if I focus with equal concentration, I can maintain my appearance in the former. And then, of course, I can become both intangible and invisible, but I don't like to do it, or else I wind up falling through floors and walls and zooming across land until I wind up somewhere else entirely. It's good to keep a foot in, you see."

Sherlock looks as though he's made another discovery, surprised once again by the mystery that is his ghost friend.

The teen smiles. "Do you think you could do it with other people? Turn someone living intangible, or invisible? Or, perhaps, release my soul from my body, a sort of astral projection, to enable me to do the same on my own? It would be very handy for me in the future, I'm willing to wager."

"It doesn't seem likely," John murmurs, "But we could perform a few tests, if you like. Although I don't want to attempt your latter suggestion; you would die."

"You don't know that," Sherlock pouts, clearly displeased with being denied something he can experiment with.

"Your soul is the energy of your body. It fuels you. I've seen it many times; that 'light' that goes out in people's eyes when they die? That's their soul _leaving_ _them,_ Sherlock. Astral projection is a myth."

"But those so-called out-of-body experiences –" Sherlock presses on, determined.

John shakes his head violently. "No. The only possible 'out-of-body experience' I can think of is the sort when one's soul leaves one's body, but the body is revived, and the soul returns to it. Some people claim to see heaven after being dead for three minutes or something similar. But they were, in fact, dying, and happened to be pulled back down by whatever remaining thread connected them to their physical body," he explains. And he really has seen it too many times to count, especially after seeing the other side of things, going from being the doctor reviving others to being the ghost watching others die, seeing what the doctors can't.

"Fine," Sherlock sulks as he plops back down to lie on his bed. He tosses the ball at the wall again. "I'll drop the idea. But I still want to see if, by physical contact, you can turn my body intangible or invisible. We'll test it tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal," John sighs, defeated. "Just… don't expect much. I doubt it can work."

"We'll start with objects first and work our way up to human testing," declares the teen. "You can begin practice on your own, if you like. In the meantime, I'm going to mull over the events of the day and work out our exact next move, minor experiments aside."

"Carry on, then," the apparition sighs. He sits in Sherlock's desk chair and picks up a pencil. He sketches roughly what he remembers his wife looking like. He still can't place her name. In the end, his drawing doesn't do her beauty justice; not the way he remembers her, anyhow.


	8. The Invisible Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then Sherlock chimes in, "Now, about those experiments to turn other objects, and quite possibly myself, invisible or intangible…"

He succumbed to his version of sleep at some point before supper, and when he wakes again, it's the following morning. Sherlock has already left for school, Mr. Holmes for work, Mycroft for Uni. Mrs. Holmes is out running errands, and Watson is left to himself in an empty house.

He feels a little alienated, a tad strange, as though he doesn't belong here unless Sherlock is present. Without him, Watson feels as though he doesn't belong in this family's home. He feels unwelcome, a spirit haunting a building it doesn't have a right to linger in.

Shifting uncomfortably as he lifts his head from the desktop and stands through the chair as he steps away from it, he allows himself to sink through the floor to the level below. He lands in the laundry room, a washer and a drying rack with damp clothes on it greeting his view.

He walks out into the kitchen, glancing at the perfectly clean state of it. He wanders the rest of the lower level of the Holmes' house, not sure what to do with himself. He could always read, he supposes, but if the book is a recently written one, he's not entirely sure he will understand all of the references and technologies mentioned in it. He's still trying to adjust to all of that.

He flips on the telly instead, somehow managing to work the device. It's very different than the telly he's used to, but he flips through the channels with the remote control, the up and down arrows with the CH beside them clear instruction enough, just like the ON button.

The ghost finds the news channels. It's 1992, they inform him. Jesus. He never really put a date to his time with Sherlock, but he's been dead for sixty-nine years before he met the boy, and since meeting him, seventy-four. He's been dead for nearly three quarters of a century.

A shudder runs its course throughout Watson's form. He closes his eyes and tries not to dwell on the fact that it feels closer to thirty at the least, and forty at the max. So many years he's spent dreaming, drifting, making his way in and out of the swirling darkness of the realm between Living and Dead. Years where he's been nothing with much of a conscious, merely an entity lost in the woven energies of the world.

Suddenly, he can't stand being cooped up inside.

He shuts off the telly and walks through the walls until he reaches the light and fresh air of the outdoors. He makes himself invisible, just in case, and gets moving.

He isn't entirely sure where his feet are leading him; sometimes, it's nice just to follow one's instincts and travel wherever his senses tell him to. Turn right here, walk straight for blocks on end there; make a left, go down an alley, come out on another street, press onward.

He feels a slight tug on that string that pulls him along his path in the afterlife, and he lets it control him. There are times when he fights it, moments when if he wants to, he can't; and sometimes he doesn't mind at all, and gives it control. This is one of those times. He only hopes that it doesn't trigger another five-year absence or something along those lines. He has things he was going to do today, plans he made with Sherlock.

Watson continues gliding over the ground, taking step by fluid step, until he reaches, obscurely enough, a play park. It isn't even one that existed when he was a child, and even if it had, he didn't have the sort of parents who would take him to one.

There is a row of swings, a few slides of different thickness and height and either tunneled or open. There are monkey bars and a spinning contraption and a ship-like wooden fort in a tree. There are children playing on the equipment, young ones who either don't have school or have already been released from it. Mothers sit on benches on the sidelines, chatting with one another, feeding bottles to infants, or contentedly observing their children.

One mother in particular caught the specter's eye. She was by herself, beneath a small tree, a hand over her pregnant belly. It's winter, and nearly the holidays, and even though she's on a blanket and none of the snow has stuck to the ground yet, he can't help but wonder if she's terribly cold or not. She's bundled up enough, he supposes, and it is a much nicer day today than it has been; it's warmer, well above freezing, and one of those oddball English winter days when it could narrowly be an autumn or spring day. The weather might account for why many of these children asked to be taken to the park today; they wanted to make use of the nice day, possibly the last one for a while.

(He wonders if Sherlock would be proud of that little deduction. It's a simple one, but not many people bother to think about those sorts of things.)

The mother keeps her eyes mainly trained on one child in specific, unlike many of the others. But many of the other mothers aren't nearly as young as this one. She is barely thirty, whereas the others are over it. She smiles serenely and when she isn't looking after her son or daughter, she's reading a paperback novel.

The next time she looks up from her book, John walks over to her and follows her line of sight. The only child in that direction is a little girl with golden blonde hair in pigtails, and by the way she is climbing all over the equipment, it isn't too bold to wager that she plays more like a boy than a girl, less dainty and more adventurous. It makes John smile.

"Be careful, Sarah!" the woman calls out, her voice tearing John's gaze away from the park.

"I will, Mummy!" the girl yells, giggling a bit as she hauls herself up another level of the play park's equipment until she's nearest to the highest slide.

The pregnant mother laughs and picks up her novel again.

He studies the woman. She is also blonde, although her hair color has changed over the years from a less bright blonde to a more… subdued blonde. It's closer to a mousy brown, hardly blonde at all any longer, and it would almost wash her out if she didn't have the color in her skin that she does. Her eyes are brown, rich and dark, and they melt into a chocolate hue when she smiles warmly, shaking her head at her daughter.

Turning his attention back to Sarah while her mother finishes a chapter, John sees that she's attempting to get into the sliding-pole near the slide. He drifts closer to hear her. She's pretending that she is a fireman. A man, he notes, and not a fire-woman. "Rrrrring, rrrring! Hurry, hurry! You gotta get down the pole and in you fireman clothes before the fire burns the house down!" she's saying to herself.

She grabs the pole, looks down at the ground below, and hesitates.

And that triggers something in John. He sees the disaster before it happens, and he dives in the woodchips to prevent it.

In her hesitation, little Sarah's foot slips and her gloved hands slip down the pole for a fleeting second before her whole body loses its balance and goes hurtling toward the ground below.

At her age, and from that height, she's twist her ankle at the very least. She could snap her neck or break a leg or arm at the most.

Sarah screams the shrill cry of a child who isn't playing anymore and is about to get hurt. Her mother's head shoots up, and she stumbles to her feet, hand on her round stomach as she cries out, "Sarah!"

Woodchips fly under him as he slides toward her on his knees, making himself tangible in order to catch her. Sarah tumbles into his arms, and he supports her weight and guides her to rest on the ground.

She turns and stares at him. She looks directly into his eyes, and he freezes, his hands still protectively on her back, making sure that she's safe and unharmed.

"Thank you," she says, and she marvels at him. "I was gonna be hurt."

"Yes, but I saved you," he murmurs.

"You're see-through," Sarah observes, and reaches up to touch his forehead. She retracts her hand. "And you're not warm. It's cold outside, and I got my mittens on, but Mummy still feels warm. Why don't you?"

"I'm…" and he doesn't know what he should say. Would telling her he's a ghost frighten her? "I'm sick, that's all. You get clammy when you're sick."

"Oh," she says, and she cocks her head at him, frowning. Her irises are perfectly a dark grey-blue with flecks of forest green around her pupils. "Get better." And she smiles, none of her teeth missing yet. She stands, brushes herself off, and her mother is upon them. "Mummy!"

"Sarah! My God, how did you… Are you okay?" her mother flusters, her eyes wide with shock.

"Yeah! The man saved me," and she points at John, whom is rising to his feet. The soldier shifts side to side, hands clasped behind his back, and he isn't sure if he prays for Sarah's mother to be able to see him or to be able to brush him off as an imaginary friend.

The pregnant woman's gaze drifts to the side that Sarah pointed to, but her eyes search everywhere, all across the play park, and there are no men in sight, only women. She sighs, smiling at last. "Well, then he must be invisible. Oh!" she says, grinning, playing up her voice for her child's sake, "Maybe he was a guardian angel!"

"But he doesn't have wings," Sarah remarks as she turns her head to peer at the soldier. "And he's got a uniform on."

"Is he a policeman?" her mother muses, playing along, taking Sarah's hand and guiding her toward the blanket under the tree.

"No," Sarah says around a frown that consumes her brows. "He's got some patches and a medal. Do you think he's an army man, Mummy?"

"If that's what you think he is," she chuckles. They sit down on the blanket and her mother checks her over. "Hmm. It's a miracle. I didn't see how you fell, but it looked like you just floated down like a feather."

"That's because the man carried me down!" Sarah insists. "Mummy, why can't you see him? He's right here," and she gestures to where Watson is standing outside of the blanket, curious to see what they have to say about him.

Her mother doesn't even humor her by looking. She's adjusting the zip on Sarah's coat and retying her boots. "Sure he is, love," she says offhandedly. "Does he have a name?"

"Dunno," Sarah murmurs. "I'll ask." (Her mother chuckles again at that.) Turning to him, the little girl asks, "What's your name? Are you an army man?"

"Yes," John replies quietly, stooping to a kneel. "My name is Captain John Watson."

"Really? Do you have a ship?" Sarah asks eagerly.

He laughs. "Not that kind of captain. It's a rank in the British army."

"Oh," she says, a tad disappointed. Then she returns her attention to her mother and smiles. "He says his name is Cap'n John, and he's really nice. Can he come over to play, Mummy?"

At this point, her mother definitely thinks John to be an imaginary friend. "Of course. If he can save you from getting hurt, he's welcome at our house any day! Now, come on. It's time to go home."

"Okay," Sarah says, pushing herself up. She takes her mother's hand. "Mummy, when my sisters are borned, can they play with John, too?"

"Sure," her mother says dismissively. "The twins would love that."

Watson stands fully and watches them walk away, hand-in-hand.

It reminds him so much of a moment that happened years ago that it nearly stills his form like holding one's breath.

Years ago, perhaps a little over a decade before he met Sherlock (which, he realizes, would mean that Sherlock wasn't near in existence yet), there was a schoolyard, and a mother was coming to pick up her daughter.

There was a child its mother called Harry, and at the time, John simply assumed it was a little boy who had very shaggy hair, as was the style of the time period. But, no, it was a little girl, even if she was dressed in what the spook considered boyish clothing. And her full name, he found when she was scolded by her mother, was Harriet.

It was like a blast from the past, reminiscent of John's own sister. He watched as a pregnant woman took the little girl home, holding her hand. But the mother was distracted by the baby kicking in her stomach, and took a step forward to cross the street just as a car was quickly approaching.

Naturally, John stepped in front of the woman and gently pushed her back a step onto the curb. She blinked, unseeing, but for a flash of a second, he swore she saw him – perhaps in the moment where she feared for her life? – and something registered in her eyes that looked like she had not only seen a ghost (which he is), but was seeing someone she knew.

Sarah had looked at him like that, at first, when he saved her. She looked as though she's seen a ghost; but not of his sort. She looked as though she'd just seen someone she used to know. But she's, what, four or five years old? What man could she know aside from her father or uncle or grandfather? And he can't possibly look like any of them.

Afterward, not knowing what to do with himself, John marches in the other direction, ready to go home himself; or, at least, to the only home he has left, the Holmes' household.

.:0:.

When he arrives home, walking into Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock glances up from his desk. He has one of his epiphany faces on. "Was this your wife?"

John blinks. He realizes that the lad has found his sketch. "Oh, um. Yes. It's not very close, and I can't draw very well, but it's somewhat like her."

Sherlock looks down at it, humming in thought. After a pause, he remarks, "She was pregnant."

"What? Don't tell me you can have possibly deduced that from my drawing?" John frowns.

"No. I got bored today and decided to do some digging. I spent my lunch hour off-campus. I went in search of your family; I looked up birth records under your surname. It took a bit of breaking and entering and lock-picking, which I know you disapprove of, moral as you are, but it had to be done," Sherlock explains. He swallows and looks up at his friend. "Are you aware that you have a son? Grand- and great-grandchildren?"

John blinks again. He stares. "No. No, that isn't possible; I-I know I made love to my wife the night before I went abroad, when I was permitted my final goodbyes, but –"

"She must have gotten pregnant at that time. But I knew it was undoubtedly yours; I assumed you must have goodbye in that manner, because the timeline fits perfectly; roughly nine months after you left, this birth certificate was made." And he holds up a copy of it, most likely stolen from the file. "You had a son: Thomas Hamish Watson. Your wife didn't marry another or have any other children. He grew and married and beget children; their birth certificates were near at hand, with his name signed on them. Currently, he is seventy-six years old, given the year or so between when you went abroad and when you were killed in action. He retired in the country. His grandchildren live in Sussex, and with that distance, I imagine he hardly sees them, except for, perhaps, holidays. Which are coming up soon."

"Are you…" his voice breaks. Watson shakes his head and lifts his chin, composing himself. He reaches around, hands clasping; he presses his knuckles into his lower back. He can't feel it much, albeit the shift in pressure. "Are you suggesting that I visit them when they have Christmas together this year?"

"I think it would be the next logical step to take in this case," Sherlock mutters with a schooled expression of nonchalance that John can see through in a heartbeat because Sherlock's energies are all wrong. His soul, even at this distance from doorway to desk chair (about four or five meters away) feels sick with oncoming depression and loneliness.

"Well, I refuse to do so just yet," Watson says stiffly. "I… I need time to wrap my mind around the whole thing. And as long as Thomas isn't ill –"

"He isn't. I made sure of it my checking his medical records as well. It took only a moment longer, before you ask where I had all the time to do this today. It isn't difficult for me. Hospital records are well organized, thankfully," Sherlock cuts in as he turns back to his desk and lightly touches the drawing. "You could wait another five to ten years, I believe, and he would still be alive."

"Good," the apparition says in a tone that is like a sigh. He treads swiftly to Sherlock's side and touches his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere just yet, then."

Immediately he feels the shift in demeanor; the way Sherlock's soul settles its squirming dread of losing the comfort of having a friend, and seems to warm at the thought that John will stay a while longer.

"Why are you choosing to ignore this? It's important," Sherlock says harshly.

"I know," John replies with deliberate softness to counter Sherlock's own tones, "But if it means moving on, then I don't want to do that just yet. I have a friend to look after for a while longer. I have to make sure that he grows up to be a decent man and gains a few more friends to keep him company when I do leave him. And he won't get them if he keeps acting as apathetic and self-centered as I've seen him be when he didn't think I was looking." And he eyes Sherlock in a manner that is both lighthearted and reprimanding. He moves his hand to give the back of the teenager's neck a gentle squeeze before mussing his hair.

The only response he gets is a smirk, but it's not an unkind one, and Sherlock elbows the soldier in the side. Watson backs away tamely, and Sherlock takes out his homework to work on.

They talk casually for the next hour, purposely leaving the tender subject of the new information alone.

Then Sherlock chimes in, "Now, about those experiments to turn other objects, and quite possibly myself, invisible or intangible…"

The deceased army doctor rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he concedes. "Where would you like me to begin?"


	9. Broken Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And again, it is like a broken melody, the way John's hand feels in Sherlock's; wavering in and out of focus like a melody recorded on a scratched disc, choppy in flow but certainly filling up the entire room.

Sherlock seems like the sort who expects approval and doesn't care if it isn't given to him, because obviously everyone isn't clever enough to realize that he deserves it.

But that couldn't be father from the truth. He gives that impression, he knows, and it is on purpose; he does it so that he doesn't feel as rotten as he has the potential to feel.

In truth, Sherlock craves attention, approval, compliments; he is accustomed to people telling him to piss off when he takes an observation and subsequent deduction "too far" and offends them. But what he would actually like to hear is someone say, "That's right! How could you tell?" and after he explains it, showing off, he would love nothing more than to hear, for once, someone say, "That's amazing! You're extraordinary!"

No one has ever given him that, and the statistics he's created based on his history and how the pattern will most likely repeat in the future has shown him quite clearly that the chances of someone giving him that are slim to none. Humans are impressed easily enough at first, but after a few more statements, their pride blocks their praise and they become irritated and feel foolish in comparison and ashamed of what's been exposed about them or people they know/care for.

Captain John Hamish Watson is one of the exceptions. One of the marvelous few that make up the slim chance that another like him will be in Sherlock's future, someone that will tell him that he is brilliant and so very clever and fantastic and feed him all the approval he needs to keep from breaking down.

As much as Sherlock wishes he weren't, he is merely human. Eventually, he's sure, too much neglect will turn even him into a demented mind, because genius is depressing, genius is lonely. Genius is all he is, all he has to his name, currently. Genius needs company. Watson has given him that. It's a gift, one Sherlock intends on clinging onto, as regrettable as it sounds. He's terribly greedy, he knows, to keep an already trapped soul on the Earth longer than necessary. Mycroft even pointed out why, while Watson was gone those five years: because, deep down, Sherlock is sure another person like Watson will never stagger into his life.

He seeks approval, especially Watson's, even if it means leading Watson closer to moving on. He dug up all he could during and after school today in order to receive it. He knew his methods of obtaining the information was going to be criticized for the lack of morality, but he was able to forgo that, mercifully. He got something better than a, "You're incredible!" or something of the like, however.

He was overjoyed when the ghost said he would stay a while longer and prolong finding closure with his family. By common social standards, he should feel guilty about feeling so joyous. But he honestly can't find it in him to be sorry for wanting to his closest and singular friend to stand by him for as long as possible. Isn't that a natural thing to want, even if the circumstances are supernatural?

Sherlock contemplates all of this while he watches Watson fiddle with the rubber ball he handed him as a starting point to work with. It's the same one the spook made appear to levitate the previous night, and thus far, it's amusing to witness the delightful faces Watson is pulling while trying to merely make the ball disappear.

After a few more grunts and groans and damn near twenty minutes of wrapping his hands around the ball and trying different meditative exercises that Sherlock carries the ghost through, Watson throws the ball violently in frustration. "It's not possible, I tell you!" he roars, and for a moment, his image becomes intensely clear and opaque, and battle wounds bleed and tear at his clothing until, in that brief second, he appears like death itself.

Sherlock blinks. This is new.

"Do that again," he says, standing from his desk chair. "Get angry. Throw something."

Watson's anger has fled, and only confusion remains. "What? Why?"

"Just do it!" the teen commands loudly, his arms gesturing.

"I can't summon anger at will," Watson frowns. He looks at where the ball is settling on the floor near the bed from being hurtled at the wall.

"For God's sake," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. He picks up the ball and throws it, and it rebounds off of Watson's head.

"That hurt!" Watson snaps, and then his eyes go wide.

"Yes, exactly, thank you," Sherlock says rapidly as he throws up his hands. "That's the point. Come on, then; get angry. Try to punch me with all you've got, or try to change the ball again; whatever will spark that fury, that pain."

Watson nods his head firmly. "Yes, all right. I'll try. But I'm not decking a kid."

"I'm fifteen. From your time period, that was about a year from being considered a man," Sherlock retorts.

Watson sorts a laugh. "Yes, well, times have changed, haven't they?"

"This isn't helping," Sherlock growls, and he turns sharply around to retrieve the ball from where it's rolled into the hallway. He returns, slams his bedroom door, and forcefully shoves the ball into Watson's chest. The ghost fumbles to grab hold of it. "Anger, Watson! We need to generate more anger!"

"Why, again?" Watson sighs. "I don't like feeling angry. It summons up negative memories."

"That's what I need to see," Sherlock answers smoothly, looking keenly into Watson's eyes. He feels strange; they are the same height. It feels only yesterday, in some ways, that their heights were so vast that Sherlock saw Watson as he saw every other adult: a tower of authority out of reach of his childish hands. But that isn't the case any longer. Sherlock is growing. Sherlock has matured five years in both his physical outer body and his mental and emotional inner body. Their eyes are perfectly leveled, as are their mouths, and – the teen banishes the thought before it can form. He blinks, forces himself to take a step backward. He clears his throat. "I need to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me."

"What had you seen?" Watson questions apprehensively.

Sherlock sighs heavily. "I'll tell you if it happens again. Now, please: _anger._ "

Watson looks skeptical and puzzled, but does as he's told. He works again on the ball, trying to morph it invisible at the least, and again, as it doesn't work, his form alters into something macabre and gruesome. Sherlock grins, runs as Watson maintains that appearance, and brings a hand-mirror from his mother's bedroom. He flashes it at Watson, and the man glances up, sees himself, and jerks back in horror.

Instantly, the shock returns his form to normal, but it was recreated, and Watson saw it.

"That…"

"That must have been how you looked as you died. Maybe spooks, in lore, are described as the morose state of their deaths, and I honestly thought it odd that you weren't the same, even though, the moment I first saw you, you looked hunched over as if wounded, as if you were in pain. But you were clean of any wounds. It seems that isn't true. It seems," Sherlock rambles quickly and excitedly, "That _is_ how you should look, and only a flare of extreme and negative emotion triggers it. But you choose to remain calm most of the time, and therefore your soul projects how you remember yourself: whole and devoid of the affects of war."

Watson looks genuinely stunned out of breath, if he had any. He stumbles backward and takes a seat on Sherlock's bed. He rubs his hand over his face and promptly rakes it through his hair. At last, he utters in slight awe, "A normal person would be afraid of that, of me. Wouldn't try to recreate it, wouldn't be excited about discovering it. But then, you're not a normal person."

Sherlock smirks. "Of course I'm not. Mundane, predictable reactions are tedious. I'm adverse to the norm. I have always been that way, you know that."

"Yes, and I fear what it's doing to me, to be honest," Watson admits with a laugh. He looks up to meet Sherlock's gaze, and his back straightens. "Here I am, momentarily terrified of myself, and you're _smiling_ like you've just discovered a new species of butterfly."

Sherlock frowns. "Yes, and?"

"…Nothing," Watson murmurs, dropping his gaze once more. "You're just… very accepting of things people aren't normally accepting of, and it's… well, unusual, of course, but… a good thing, I think. Although it makes me wonder: if I weren't so fascinating to you, wasn't something g that could surprise you with things like this, would you be remotely interested in being my friend?"

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock feels his face heat up at how immediate his response had been. "Or not. No." He pauses, reconsiders for a second time. "Maybe? –It depends on how I met you and if you were just as equally accepting of my peculiar nature as I am of yours, currently. And if you still were able to surprise me. Very few people can do anything to surprise me in the way they behave, but you always manage to." He scratches his chin. "I think those would be the reasons for us being friends aside from your ghostly state, anyhow. And I'm never wrong."

"Everyone is wrong sometimes, even if it's exceptionally rare," Watson counters kindly. "But thank you. It's nice to know that, were things different, we'd still be amiable."

Sherlock nods, unsure what to say. He clears his throat again. "So, then. You can't turn other objects invisible or intangible aside from yourself."

"Seems so," Watson says in a tone that is akin to sighing regretfully. "And I was hoping it would work, just for the sake of success."

"We still haven't tried a human test subject. Perhaps flesh and bone is more malleable than rubber?" Sherlock suggests. He holds out his hand and feels the tingling sensation of anticipation thrum through his arm. "Try it on me. Concentrate especially hard; think of nothing else but turning my body invisible. That should be simpler to do than intangibility; invisibility is a trick of the light, not the movement of molecules so fast that they faze around objects."

"If you say so," Watson complies, taking Sherlock hand and finding his footing. Sherlock tries to brush off the fuzzy feeling of caterpillars in his stomach at the contact. Watson is ever like touching the fleeting chill of air, dense like fog and cold like window glass, but barely there, the sensation of his hand flickering in and out of Sherlock's grasp, despite the fact that he can see the man's hand hasn't left or turned intangible in the least.

He picks up the mirror and angles it down at himself, ignoring his own reflection save for the fact that it is there in his peripherals. "Alright. Begin testing the methods I ran by you earlier. See if any of them is a strong enough concentration to turn at least part of me invisible."

Sherlock has a theory: things with souls all have the potential to become invisible or intangible with a little aid from something that is free of its physical body. The contact of energies should be enough to make the physical host unnecessary, and therefore, invisible or intangible to let the spiritual host take control. And if Sherlock can focus himself on feeling as Watson described when he changes form like that, then perhaps the mesh of the same commands will trigger the desired affect.

At least, in theory.

Sherlock holds his breath, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He glances down at their hands, mostly, and sees Watson's flicker, shifting in and out of invisibility, but even with the flickers, Sherlock can still feel the presence, still rub his thumb over the back of the specter's hand. And if Watson notices the touch, he doesn't react or comment on it.

For a brief, beautiful moment, Watson's eyes are closed and his face is relaxed and he looks as young as twenty, perhaps slightly younger, and there is something that changes in his clothing, something infinitely more casual than a uniform for a short second. Sherlock's curiosity sparks, and he nearly shatters his friend's concentration in favor of asking what Watson is feeling or thinking that is causing him to do that. He has the urge to run a whole range of experiments, now, to trigger emotional memories or things that will also alter Watson's spiritual appearance; he already knows what anger does. But what is this one?

Sherlock notices, then, after the moment passes and Watson returns to his usual thirty-year-old soldier-self that Sherlock's fingers are turning faint in color, losing their solidity. He checks it in the mirror; it's actually happening, not wishful thinking projected from his mind.

Thrill runs through him, bright and warm, and Watson must feel it, because in an instant, he released Sherlock's hand and his eyes fly open.

They stare at one another for a lingering second. Then Sherlock ventures, "Did you feel that?"

"You were… keyed up. Was it working?" Watson asks, casual as ever.

"Yes!" Sherlock says with a small jump oh triumph, setting the mirror down and touching his fingers that were in Watson's hand a moment ago. "It was unmistakable. My fingers were vanishing before my eyes." He bounds up and down again. "Haha, yes! I love it when my theories are proven plausible."

Watson smiles. "I'm glad you're pleased."

"Yes, but now we can't stop until we're entirely successful," Sherlock replies. He's grinning mischievously. "No sleep tonight. We must keep at it. And I'm also planning on testing how your emotional state or how certain thoughts and memories of yours affect your appearance."

"Why? Because of how frightening I was while I was angered?" Watson asks for clarification, his brows drawn.

"Yes," Sherlock supplies, although it isn't the while truth. But it doesn't have to be. "Oh, this is going to be enlightening. I love it when experiments go right." And he moves to his desk to record his trials on a spreadsheet for a moment.

"You're… writing up the trials," Watson muses, peering over Sherlock's shoulder while he writes.

" _Naturally,_ " Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. "It wouldn't be science unless it's recorded, John."

He suddenly freezes, hand stilling on the page and head lifting. He's never called Watson 'John' before, even in his own head. He feels the dreaded warmth of a flush rise to his ears.

"Um… If I may call you John," the dark-haired lad adds mutedly.

The ghost socks his head down at the teen. "What? Of course you may. I call you 'Sherlock' and not 'Holmes' often enough, anyhow. And, as you pointed out, you're nearly a man," he says with an amused smile. "So I think you've earned the right." He rolls his shoulder backs and looks away. "I'd prefer it, actually. Too many people have called me 'Watson' – with or without the titles of 'mister,' 'doctor,' or 'captain' in front of it – in my life. I could do with being called 'John' for once." He smiles. "And who more appropriate than my best mate?"

Sherlock's blood betrays him and fully assaults his cheeks now. He continues with his writing and pays it no mind. "Yes, that… that works."

Wat– _John_ smiles broader. He moves to lean against the side of the desk and throw and catch a few of Sherlock's pencils, twirling them around his fingers in between tosses. It's not distracting, but it can potentially be if Sherlock doesn't focus solely on making his chart that will hopefully soon be filled with comments and a traceable pattern. He decides to create a scale to base his percentage of invisibility on, and makes another for when they attempt the trials of intangibility.

Now, he doesn't expect half of these to work even as well as the first attempt to see if it's even doable. There are many variables to take into account, some even that Sherlock doesn't know, making them true variables of the _x_ sort. But the point of experimentation is to test hypothesis and adjust them accordingly after each failure. So there is nothing left, now, but to take the steps, jot down the results, and test the limits.

"There," Sherlock announces at last, spinning 'round in his desk chair to face John. "Ready for a few more trials?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," John shrugs, and he holds the ball up, eyebrows raised. "Why, do you think, it didn't work with this, but started to work on you?" His tone shifts from curious to mildly mocking in a teasing manner as he says, "I know you must have a few thoughts; your brain is _beyond_ capable."

Sherlock smiles wryly. "It is, and I do. But nothing worthwhile telling you yet; I need to collect more data first."

"Alright," John agrees as he drops the ball and lets it roll away on he floor somewhere. He mimics cracking his knuckles. "Give me your hand again, then."

And again, it is like a broken melody, the way John's hand feels in Sherlock's; wavering in and out of focus like a melody recorded on a scratched disc, choppy in flow but certainly filling up the entire room. In this case, it's filling up Sherlock again, the contact putting something restless and empty at ease within him. Sherlock relaxes, settling back into his chair, and watches intently as the ghost closes his eyes and concentrates.

Thirty-two trials later, they are only able to get as far as Sherlock's elbow with complete invisibility, and midway up his bicep with the discoloration and transparency.

But it's something, and nothing short of a miracle, something between science and the paranormal that needs further investigating.


	10. More Than Bargained For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely, if a Dead man can do it, a Living man can as well?

Sherlock makes a sort of grunting moan as he stretches and rubs his eyes. Staying away for nearly four days in a row isn't healthy, he knows, but his body is caught up on sleep now – he's had eleven hours of it – so he shouldn't feel this groggy. Why does he feel so groggy?

He shivers as he sits up and removes his covers. The house is _freezing._ His breath comes out in puffs of cloudy vapor and he dons a robe as he pushes himself out of bed. Body betraying his preferred desensitization to the climate, Sherlock trembles with each step he takes.

"Oh, good, you're awake," John greets with a slight smile as Sherlock moves downstairs, and there, that's warmer. The fireplace is roaring, and everyone is huddled around it. "Thought you might've gone into hibernation like a bear."

Sherlock wraps his arms around himself, his body still sleep-warm to the touch. He settles down before the hearth, flanked by his mother and John. "Why is it so cold, Mum?"

"The heater's blown out," his mother retorts tensely. "We're having a repairman come give us a new one and install it. It came with the house, so it's a bit old, and we were already stretching it past its years. I'm just irritated that it had to go and break down on us during the coldest day this winter!"

It is too cold for even snow to come down, and the windowpanes are frosty. His father isn't home at the moment, but Mycroft is; it's holiday break. Christmas is around the corner. Sherlock has no taste for Christmas; he doesn't have much faith in a higher power, he doesn't find the sentimentalism and traditionalism appealing, and finds certain things about the holidays completely strange and he just wonders _why_ such things even got started.

And the whole ordeal with giving and receiving gifts (it is because, in the tale, the baby Christ got gifts from the so-called 'Wise Men'?) is pointless. If Sherlock wants or needs something, he will mention it to his mother or save his money to buy it himself. And as far as giving gifts go… Sherlock buys his parents and brother one gift each as he's expected to, but nothing more. He doesn't even want to, especially not for his father (and, lately, his brother, either), but he will be scolded if he doesn't. Once he's eighteen and off to Uni and away from everyone, he'll stop. There's no point in it, in his opinion.

Even if he did get someone a gift because he truly wanted to, Sherlock knows it would only be John, and then, he wouldn't know what to give a ghost. John is dead; what would he need with any worldly possessions? He would have no use for them, of course. So there, another moot point about Christmas gifts.

Sherlock sighs and appreciates the way he can't see his breath curl up into the air. The fire crackles and he watches, mesmerized, as the orange glow consumes the wood and flares upward in a constant blaze, smelling the delicious way wood-smoke and heat does.

"Are you excited for Christmas, Sherlock?" Mycroft grins, and it's apparent that he knows something Sherlock doesn't.

"Whatever it is you're hiding, whatever game you're playing, I have no intention of going along with it. I'm too tired."

"But you slept for over ten hours!" his mother adds. "Can't you muster up even a scrap of energy to be excited? Christmas is in three days."

"I meant 'tired' in the 'fed-up' sense, Mum," Sherlock replies simply. "You know that Christmas holds no glee for me, and that Mycroft's question is shrewd at best."

"Well, yes, but I had hoped you would be more enthusiastic this year, considering the doctor's presence. You have someone to share the holidays with, now. You won't be as bored and lonely while the adults are conversing at the party."

"Just be sure not to get caught under any mistletoe," Mycroft adds listlessly. "We're going to Auntie's this year, and you know how she fancies assembling all her friends and sticking mistletoe in the worst of places, making the married couples act like newlyweds, family members force affection, and good friends become awkward with one another." But the smile he makes after saying this is directed solely at Sherlock, and it's enough to nearly make Sherlock turns beet red and move over to his brother's chair to punch him in his smarmy face.

Instead, Sherlock pretends to ignore the remark and instead focuses on warming his icy fingertips.

John, as per usual, remains perfectly oblivious to Mycroft's insinuation, and thankfully, age difference counts for something, because it ensures that John won't notice Sherlock's recent change in… in _sentiment,_ as much as he despises that word. He went from a child's admiration for an adult friend to a teenager's more complicated _crush_ for an adult, like some of the older girls in his advanced placement classes have on the young teacher of about twenty-seven who teaches one of the honor's courses.

And it's a bit Not Good, Sherlock knows, but he can't seem to help himself. John Watson is, by far, the closest person to Sherlock, and every quality about him – apart from being dead, which is, in many ways, more of a hindrance than the age problem – is charming.

Sighing, Sherlock stands and heads for the kitchen for something warm to drink. John accompanies him, aiding him in setting out cups on saucers and making tea for everyone left around the fireplace.

"So, you don't fancy the holidays much, huh? Which is fine, by the way. Everyone has their opinions, and I'm not one to judge. It's just a bit… odd. As far as I can tell, everyone loves Christmas. The festive cheerfulness is damn near palpable. I've hardly met anyone who doesn't like it," the spook remarks as he sets a few biscuits on a tray.

The teen says nothing, merely puts the kettle on in silence. The former soldier purses his lips and decides to plow onward.

"I'll admit it lost a bit of its luster after I underwent puberty, and it was no picnic when I was a solider, but I came to love it again in the middle of those years, and I love it again now, even though I'm not with my original family. But I have yours, and I'm equally as content."

Finally, Sherlock opens his mouth. "Well, I'm not everyone. I don't love it, and it has nothing to do with my unstable hormones making me irritable. I simply don't see much point in the stressful bustle to hurry here, hurry there, buy this, buy that, see this person, see that person," Sherlock rants in riposte as he puts the kettle on. "People have their areas to work inside of, and being social and sentimental and traditional are not mine."

"Oh. I see," Watson murmurs, clasping his hands behind his back. "That's understandable."

When the kettle sounds, Sherlock pours the steaming water into the teapot and carts out the tray to his waiting family. For a moment, John doesn't move, only watches. The way Sherlock carries himself at this age is very different than when he was a boy, and even now, on this frigid morning, he's carrying himself differently again. He can't place how, exactly, but the air is definitely changed about the brilliant lad.

.:0:.

On Christmas Eve, Sherlock stays in one corner of his aunt's living room and doesn't move very much; he hardly eats, either, but he does drink the milk-diluted eggnog that John brings him, and it's nice to know that, apart from Maris, Mycroft, and Sherlock, only one of Sherlock's little cousins can see the spook.

It's a little girl, one from Sherlock's mother's side, and she is perhaps aged seven years, give or take a year.

"Sherlock, is this your friend?" she asks when she first sees the military doctor. "I never seen him 'fore."

"Yes. He's my guest," Sherlock explains tightly. He sips his eggnog, appreciating that John made it less overbearingly sweet for him, and doesn't look his younger cousin in the eyes much. "Won't you go and play with Jaclyn?"

"Jackie doesn't want to play," the little girl pouts. "Since she's twelve now, she thinks she's a grown-up."

"Well, that's her loss," Watson supplies gently, crouching to her level. "You seem like you have a bright imagination. I bet your play-pretend games are the best."

She shakes her head, grinning, her cheeks pink with bashfulness from getting attention from an adult she isn't familiar with. "Hehe, thank you. I do like to play pretend a lot! I like to make up creatures that're animals mixed with other animals. My favorite is an owl mixed with a rabbit. He's my faerie pet."

"That so?" John chuckles, standing to full height again. "I bet he's adorable. What color is he? White?"

"Yeah!" she says excitedly. "With silver down feathers and lavender eyes! How'd you know?"

"I have a talent for knowing these things," John returns, clearly amused. Sherlock watches the exchange with mild interest. "You know, I don't think you told me your name." He holds out his hand. "Hi, my name is John Watson."

"I'm Marcella!" the little girl says brightly. She shakes his hand, giggling, but soon, her hand retracts and she stares oddly at him. "Your… hands are cold."

"Oh, well. I was just outside a moment ago for a smoke. I'm sure my hands are still chilled," Watson supplies mutedly. He's just glad he isn't more obvious to her; it must be the atmosphere, all these lifted spirits in the room, which keep him from looking terribly transparent. He must seem solid enough for the girl not to question his authenticity.

"Oh, okay," Marcella smiles. "Hey, so, are you in the army? Your clothes are funny."

"I am, yes," John answers a tad stiffly. He tries to roll his shoulders to keep his voice from going rough with pain. "I'm on leave for the holidays."

"That's good! But why aren't you with your family right now?" she wants to know.

Sherlock turns to look at his friend now, truly look at him. He studies his response, and John feels a bit shaky under Sherlock's intense gaze. "Um, well. Well, you know, I don't have much family, and we usually have our get-together on Christmas Day. I'll see them tomorrow," he says, not technically lying.

"Okay," Marcella says, easily deterred, being her age. "I'm gonna go get a cookie. See you later, Mr. Watson!" and she skips off.

Alone again, Sherlock glances over his shoulder up at the man standing beside him and opens his mouth. "You weren't referring to your blood relatives at all in your reply. You meant us."

"Yes," John says simply.

Sherlock nods minutely, turning to face forward again as he swings a foot up from resting on the floor to overlap his knees. He leans back into the lounge sofa and comments almost idly, "Could you see her imaginary creature? You seemed oddly knowledgeable about it."

"It's reflected in her soul," John answers quietly. "Children wear their souls on their sleeves; it's easy to read them, feel their energy, and how vibrant it is. Marcella's soul in particular is all sorts of colors weaving in and out. It's given off in her sunny aura. And when I looked into her eyes, I could see it, the creature. It shows that she has a pure, imaginative heart."

"Really?" Sherlock says, hands coming up to steeple in front of his lips. "Interesting." Still facing forward, his gaze shifts to John, eyes lit with an inner flame of curiosity. "What did you see of my soul when I was younger?"

"I saw something entirely different in you when you were a child," the soldier admits. He curves around the arm of the lounge and sits down beside the teenager. "When you first called out 'sir' to me, I looked at you and saw a very blue aura. Dark blue, like the night, and very strong. You didn't have a noticeable imagination like most, but then, you were ten, and a little old for the height of it. But it was different than even that; you felt… _old._ I've heard of the term 'old soul' before, but I never realized it was literal. But you _literally_ felt matured beyond your years, and yet just as fragile as the child you were. It was quite the contradiction."

Sherlock's head is fully facing Watson now, his eyes searching the man's face. "So you knew instantly that I wasn't like other children."

John nods. "Well, yes, and the fact that you could see me told me the same thing. Marcella is different, too; she can see me, which could mean her imagination extends to ghosts being real. Which is comforting, I must say; it's nice to know that other people, no matter how young, can understand that what happened to me can happen to anybody, given the right circumstances."

"Perhaps we're going about your ghostly abilities all the wrong way," Sherlock ponders aloud. "Perhaps, instead of invisibility and intangibility, we should focus on your soul-reading ways. I could take you out, as an experiment, and have you tell me what you see or feel regarding the spirits of the Living we walk past. And we can see if you can't train me to be in tune with the same thing. I would want nothing more than to be able to read people more accurately. I'm usually pretty correct, but a slight advantage never hurt anyone." And he smirks a bit at that.

"All right," John agrees readily, never sure quite how to say 'no' to the ever-persistent Sherlock Holmes. "You've got yourself a deal. We should make a date. When do you want to try this? It's a bit too cold out for much walking around."

Sherlock feels foolish when his body reacts to the word 'date' with a flush on his neck. "On a warmer day, then, after the New Year. We'll get one of those oddly nice winter days that preludes spring, and we'll go then. And I can point out people and you can tell me what you find, and maybe, while on the outing, you can see if you can teach me."

"Agreed," John smiles cordially.

For the remainder of the party, Sherlock doesn't speak much and Watson mulls over how he might pass on his ability to Sherlock. Surely, if a Dead man can do it, a Living man can as well? The only difference between the two is a body made of flesh and blood. And Sherlock is already a bit detached from his flesh; he doesn't sleep or eat on a regular schedule like everyone else, and as far as he can tell, Sherlock doesn't take part in any of a usual teenage boy's carnal urges. Ever. Which shows true detachment, the doctor thinks, because to not care for what Sherlock's hormones should be screaming at him to want… it's, well, telling. And it says that what Sherlock wants to experiment with might work out better than what they've been trying with everything else regarding the abilities unlocked after death.

.:0:.

On Christmas morning, Sherlock lazily trudges downstairs around half past ten and greets his family. He chooses not to eat breakfast, and instead makes himself a cup of coffee and sits down with everyone else. They waited to open gifts until he woke, and now that he's present, they start passing them out, his father observant, his mother eager and smirking, and Mycroft looking amused.

Sherlock keeps a passive expression of his own on his face as he opens each of the few gifts he has. The spread is predictable, and he knows what each gift is before he opens it, all because of the way it sounds in the box, the way it weighs in his hand, and how each one was wrapped and who it was from.

But there is one gift in particular that John hands him after Mr. Holmes leaves the room for a smoke. It's a gift that Sherlock stares at without opening.

"What is this?" Sherlock questions with furrowed brows.

"A present," Mycroft grins impishly, leaning forward slightly. "You've opened six of them already. You should know that, O Child Prodigy."

"Shove it, Mycroft. I know the obvious, thank you," Sherlock snarls, shooting a glare. His face and voice soften again as he looks down at the gift in his lap. It's not very well wrapped; too loose around the packaging, as if the wrapper had no strength. The wrapping paper is like the rest, the same snowflake pattern, but it feels somehow more personal than the others. "John," he murmurs, "Did you do this?"

"It says so on the label, doesn't it?" the solider chuckles, pointing to the underside of the object. Sherlock turns it over and yes, there, in a slightly messy but distinctly Watson-esque scroll, it reads, 'To: Sherlock, From: Your ghostly pal, John' with a lighthearted feel to it.

"Yes, but…" Sherlock says, his words uncharacteristically catching in his throat, "Why?"

John laughs and rubs the back of his neck. "Friends buy each other things on holidays. And I've missed so many of yours over the years. I thought I might make it up to you by getting you something. Well, I picked it out and wrapped it, anyhow; I can't very well make money, nor go to a store and purchase it myself. But Maris was kind enough to help out with that. I tagged along with her one day while you were at school, and we shopped together for you. And it was difficult to wrap without actual fingers, but I managed." And he smiles like he's proud of himself. Then, "Well? Aren't you going to open it?"

Sherlock looks back down at it and feels strange, his emotions a muddled mixture of vermilion and chartreuse that feels nauseating. His face is stiflingly hot. "You didn't have to. I can't repay you; there's nothing material to give a ghost."

"I know," John replies kindly. "But I wanted to get you something anyway. You don't seem the sort who gets what he wants for Christmas; all your wants seem to be saved for your birthdays, from what Maris told me you usually get. And I wanted to change that. So I got you something you might like. I hope you do, anyway. When I saw it, it reminded me of you."

This has never happened before. It's… an anomaly. Sherlock sits stunned for a moment longer before composing himself and tearing into the wrapping paper at a measured pace.

His father walks in right as Sherlock unveils the gift contained inside the box.

"Who on Earth bought you that?" Mr. Holmes glowers.

"Oh! Ah, I did, love," Mrs. Holmes jumps in to say, a nervous smile on her lips. "I thought he might like it. He's fifteen; in three years, like Mycroft, I won't be buying him Christmas presents any longer. I thought it would be nice to get him something extra this year."

In Sherlock's hands is a bull skull, blackish-brown with sunken eyes and obtruding horns, and a chord extending from headphones on its head. It's definitely a wall ornament, something more for decoration than anything practical, but it's…

"Lovely," Sherlock says with a slight smile tugging up one end of his lips. "Thank you."

"You like it, then? Truly? You're not just saying that?" the doctor asks, and Mrs. Holmes repeats it ("Do you like it, then?") to make Sherlock's answer seem natural and not out of the blue.

"I do," Sherlock says, and he forces himself to look at his mother as he replies, "It's going on my wall above my desk as soon as possible."

"Oh, good," his mother replies, affording to steal a glance at John and smile. "I was wondering if you would think it silly."

"It's not," Sherlock assures. "And I can see why you thought of me when you bought it." And he says this while looking down at the bull's skeletal likeness, but speaking directly to Watson.

It's only later, when Sherlock has retired to his room for the day and hung up his present, that he allows himself to acknowledge the fact that Christmas isn't so dull and pointless after all.

* * *

**A/N: Recognize John's gift to Sherlock? Yep, it's from the show. I looked at all the scenes of their flat and looked for an object Sherlock might take with him to wherever he moves around. And that silly bull head above the desk between the windows became the answer.**


	11. Practiced, Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Living need the aid of the Dead in order to see as the Dead does," Sherlock relays, "I can't quite place why it works that way, but it must, because when I touch you, I can see the way you do, but when I let go, I see as I always have –"

It isn't until mid-March when there is an off day with agreeable weather that meets Sherlock's needs.

"Ready to leave?" Sherlock announces as soon as he steps foot in the front door after school.

"Leave? You just got home," says Watson with a confused frown.

"Yes, leave. Or have you forgotten what we agreed on during my family's Christmas Eve party?" the teen reminds. "Today is warm enough that I can leave this heavy coat behind in favor of a light jacket. And it's a perfect day to go out because others will be out as well, enjoying the opportunity to get a spot of sun and catch up on necessary outdoorsy things. So out we go, John. I'd like to see what you can read of other people, and how you do it."

"B-but– I… all right," the spook concedes, defeated. "Just let me inform your mother. I was going to help her bake banana bread today."

"Honestly, Watson," Sherlock sighs under his breath, rolling his eyes. He turns and heads up the stairs to retrieve his lighter jacket from his closet. He trades the coats, hanging his winter one in its place, and slips it on. Downstairs again, John is waiting for him by the front door.

"Be successful, you two!" Mrs. Holmes calls out. "And John, do keep an eye out for Sherlock. Sometimes he gets into nasty fistfights while he's out, all because he makes himself a target."

"Can do, Mum," John replies with a smile. He tugs on Sherlock's ear beneath his abundance of dark curls. "I'll keep this brat out of trouble."

"I'm not a child!" Sherlock snaps, smacking John's hand away, his face coloring. "Come on, then." And he pivots, irked, on his heel, marching out the door. His mother giggles to herself and goes about making the batter for her banana bread.

Outside, John finds that it is, indeed, fresh-smelling and very warm compared to previous days, a decent twenty or so degrees above freezing point. He fills himself up with air by going intangible long enough to make his insides feel crisp and renewed, washed of the stale, heated air of the inside of a home. It is as close to breathing as John can manage, but somehow more satisfying.

"John," Sherlock asks quietly as they tread down the length of the sidewalk (and he treasures every time he uses the soldier's first name on his tongue), "Tell me, exactly, in a list, all of your ghostly abilities. I don't want any more surprises."

"Oh. Ah, well…" John puzzles out, his pace joining Sherlock's as he turns himself tangible again, using his feet instead of floating. "I can turn myself willing between tangible and intangible, although there are instances when I am emotional that I cannot control it. I can become invisible or visible also at will, but even when I'm visible, it's mainly myself and a few others who can see me, most likely for the hypothesis of yours where only those who accept or are generally open to death can see the Dead." He hums in thoughts. "I can touch things. I can't feel them, per se, but I can be felt if I wish it, and I can pick up and carry things that aren't too heavy for me. The less dense an object, the easier it is to lift."

"Yes, but those center around the physical. What else is there?" Sherlock prods, giving his companion sideways glances.

"I can sense the energies in others. I believe it's my soul reaching out and 'seeing' theirs, since I have no physical eyes to see them with. So, I suppose, I recognize what matches me in them; I see their spirits. Everyone's is different in color and brightness and size, depending on the person's moods and thoughts and faith, I think. I can better read it through touch; like when I had your hand when I was trying to turn you invisible. I could feel your excitement, your wonder, your curiosity, your trust. You were splotches of grassy green and electric blue, spiking and meshing."

"I see," Sherlock murmurs. "Anything else?"

"Hmm, no, I think not," the doctor supplies at length. "We tried seeing if I could turn things, but I really can't, and by the look of it, you've given up trying to see if I can in full."

"I have."

"Yeah. So, no, I doubt there is anything else."

"What about possession? Spirits through the ages in lore have been said to be able to possess the Living, and you told me once, when I was small, that you did it by mistake," Sherlock puts in.

John shakes his head. "No. Two souls inhabiting one body? It doesn't work out right. No, it was awful for the two of us, and I immediately left once I figured out how to. I don't remember quite how I got in to begin with; something about intangibility, I'm sure, but I don't want to try again, and I don't think it would be safe. It might prove hazardous for the Living soul; what if I accidentally force them from their own body, and they become the ghost? It wouldn't be natural."

"Duly noted."

Sherlock stops after a while, on a corner, at a bus stop. He stands in the group of people and doesn't say anything for a while, even as John asks him what they're doing.

Instead, Sherlock shows him; he gets into the bus that rolls to a stop before them, pays the fare, and takes a seat in the far back, separate from everyone else.

"That woman, there, the mother with the crying baby; what do you see in her?" Sherlock asks. "And how can I see it, too, do you think?"

"Everyone has a soul, even if they're essentially rotten, immoral folk," John explains. "But everyone isn't in tune with anyone else's souls because they have no reason to be. They see and think and feel in their flesh, and that keeps their soul-eyes shut," John says. "I've seen that, over the years. I've met plenty of older ghosts than myself who have explained it to me, helped me see it. When we die, we have no choice but to open our inner eyes. So if you detach yourself, I think, you might be able to see. Try closing your eyes, keeping in memory where everyone is on this bus. And I'll describe the woman to you, as I see her, and you can tell me is you see it, too, not just imagining it."

"Reasonable," Sherlock remarks as he closes his eyes and leans back into his seat, as if fancying a nap. "Carry on."

"All right," the soldier says. "The mother. She has a peachy aura about her, humming beneath her skin; yellow-orange, faintly pink, and with a dull glow. She is exhausted, her soul sagging a bit further into her seat than she is currently sitting, but I can scantly feel her happiness. Happiness is, generally, a sunny yellow in people, and she has it."

"She most likely wishes she were home and that the baby would shut up," Sherlock remarks offhandedly. "Next. Describe someone for me to find on my own."

"A man. His aura is pale blue mingled with indigo, not quite purple, and it is very weak and dull, more located in the center of his chest. His immense sorrow and loneliness can be felt from here. There's the bitter taste of eventual suicide on my tongue; poor man." And John feels a pang of sympathy; he wishes he could help him.

"Oh, I saw him when we came in. He's seated to the left of us, three seats up, his body slumped against the window. He looks about seventy, more or less, and he wears a wedding band but clothes that clearly are over ten years old from the faded and thin and frayed wear of them, meaning he hasn't had a wife around to get him to purchase new clothes in at least eight. He is in mourning, he longs to join her, and he is most likely such a state of depression that he is contemplating suicide, yes. But you can taste it, really?" Sherlock asks, eyes opening to look at his friend.

"I can always taste death on people, if it looms over them in any manner," John remarks quietly. "I judge it's because I am dead. I know when someone has died or will very soon. It's an inherent gift. I suppose I should have added that to my list of abilities, huh?"

"Yes, you should have. It's very important. Can you tell if someone has died somewhere?" Sherlock would like to know.

John shrugs. "Nothing as clear as that, unless the spirit is haunting that particular area, and happens to be a remnant, a ghost that, unlike me, isn't a complete soul with conscious thought, but instead are left-behinds, like photographs, stuck in one moment, replaying the same sounds and images over and over again, unable to leave."

"Ah," Sherlock accepts quietly. He sighs in disappointment. "I wasn't able to see either person, only imagine what you were describing."

"Hmm. Well, it could simply be that, no matter how detached you think you are, you can't open your soul's eyes unless you're dead," the doctor poses. "But we could try again. There is a young girl with a fiery red-magenta-orange blaze about her, just in the front, there. She has those things on her ears, and something in her lap."

"A CD player and headphones," Sherlock remarks. "Yes, I see her. She looks utterly plain to me, just a blonde with a ponytail, early twenties, freshly out of Uni, and has a jogger's body."

"Oh, well. You should see her as I do. She's quite the lively spirit. Too independent for a man, in my opinion," and he chuckles, touching Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, the artistic types usually are; there's paint on her hands, and she seems to have a pamphlet for a museum poking out of her purse. She –" He abruptly cuts himself off. He blinks, stares.

"She what? What is it?" the soldier question. He removes his hand. "…Sherlock?"

"No!" Sherlock says, startling the soldier, and making a head or two turn his way. He doesn't care. He grabs hold of John's wrist and peers back at the girl. "…I can see it. When I'm in contact with you – I can see it. Everyone's on this bus, all as clear as day, like a film over their skin, like translucent flames around their bodies. Each and every color, size, shape… it's all there."

And he sounds indisputably overcome and animated. He marvels at everyone, eyes scanning their various colors, and he squeezes John's wrist with a vice-like grip. He can _feel_ traces of their emotions as he guides his eyes from one person to the next, like extending a radio antennae and picking up the various frequencies, some overlapping, but generally gathering them one at a time.

He drops his friend's hand and it all stop. Vanishes like the clarity of sight does after taking off a pair of glasses.

"Ohh, brilliant," Sherlock whispers in his epiphany-voice.

"Um, sorry, Sherlock, but… What's brilliant?" John frowns.

"The Living need the aid of the Dead in order to see as the Dead does," Sherlock relays, "I can't quite place why it works that way, but it must, because when I touch you, I can see the way you do, but when I let go, I see as I always have –"

"Which is observant on detail and easy to deduce," John nods.

"But it's a bit of a sensory overload when the emotions of others are thrown into the mix. It's an advantage for my to come to more accurate conclusions, but I dislike the amount of emotional stimulation," Sherlock murmurs. He doesn't speak until the vehicle comes to a slow stop. "We can get off the bus, now," he states, "And head for home. We're a bit far; I'll call a cab."

The only thing a cab driver sees is a young man getting into his car. What he doesn't see is the military man get in with him, and he definitely can't see his own grey and olive green aura radiating his unhappiness of being a cabby.

But Sherlock can see both the things the man can't, and it's a little like having the upper hand, and Sherlock loves it.

.:0:.

"Give me your hand," Sherlock commands the following day. He's finished his homework, what left of it he had, and is spinning 'round in his desk chair to face Watson.

The ghost stirs, sitting upright on Sherlock's bed, and blinks a few times to clear his half-dreaming head. "Hmm, yeah. Okay. What for?" he asks as he scoots to the edge of the bed and holds out his hand to the teen.

"Experiment," Sherlock answers plainly, as if it were evident from his command. He takes John's hand in his and sees, after a moment of thought, his aura flare up around his fleshly hand, dark purples and blues swirling casually just around the outside of his skin, like fog curls around dry ice. He thinks of Mycroft teasing him, poking fun, bettering him in nearly everything; the aura shifts to a blunt, bloody red amidst the blues, the purple gone.

"Why are you suddenly angry? It burns a bit," John says with a slight wince.

"Sorry," Sherlock replies, instantly wiping his mind, "I just wanted to see. It really does change with mood, like one of those ridiculous rings I see some girls wear. Except this isn't an illusion caused by body heat; this is the real thing."

"Yes, as I've told you," John replies. "You didn't think that it worked that simply?"

"I had my doubts, but mostly I wanted to see for myself," Sherlock shrugs. He drops John's hand. "It seems almost cliché, color-changing moods."

John's lips quirk into a smile. "Sorry to disappoint, but the idea came from somewhere, didn't it? This must be where."

"Must be," Sherlock remarks under his breath. He leans back in his chair, head tipped over the top, and blows air out his mouth. "And it seems people are more than one color at once because part of it is their mood shifting, and part of it is merely their natural, neutral color, the one of their soul in general. Yours is ironically an army green, it seems; that's the color you tint when you become more transparent and lose the colors of your clothing and skin, which is white anyway."

John nods slowly. Nothing to argue there.

"But unlike someone living, you don't have much of an aura any longer; you don't need one. Your soul changes form instead. What does it look like, I wonder, when you are a range of emotion? I've seen hurt and anger. For brief moments, I've seen you when you're happy – you look the youngest then, merely a few years off from my age – and I know your usual, calm and content appearance. But what does your form shift to when you're jealous? Woeful? In love?"

"…I don't know," the army doctor murmurs. "Until a few months ago, I wasn't even aware that my appearance changed at all during moments of intense emotion until you pointed it out to me that day."

"Even so, I'd like to know. Would you mind thinking of something to trigger one of the previous emotions?"

"No, not at all. It's for the sake of science, so I don't mind," he answers with a slight smile. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on one thing at a time. Love is easiest; he pictures his wife, her name still lost, but her beauty and the affection that comes with remembering her is instantly brought back to him. And knowing, now, that she was with child only makes his affection grow, and he lets it spread through him like electricity through a chord, sending warmth and energy as it courses through him, vague memories of running his fingers through her hair and touching his lips to hers and holding her soft hand in his crossing his consciousness.

On the outside, John appears to be _glowing._ Not unlike the woman from the bus, he's radiating peace and the golden, blurring edges of love, his form slightly pink and looking young, very young, like a teenager in puppy-love, and his smile is serene. Sherlock has to look away; the words 'stunning' and 'angelic' and 'not meant for me' flickering through his mind, making him feel uneasy and _wrong._

Returning to himself, John clears his head again and tries to think of a moment when he was jealous. Nothing like his sister getting a new toy is strong enough; he searches instead for his school days, way back when. He recalls a moment when a friend of his was courting a girl that John liked, one his friend _knew_ he fancied, but perused her anyway. He remembers how cold and hot he felt, flashing between the two, irritation and jealousy zapping him to his core.

Outwardly, John contorts into something that makes Sherlock do a double-take. He looks _older_ now, older than the age he died at, and sickly-pale, clammy-looking, and burning a dull green that makes Sherlock think of Vulcan blood. He shudders at the sight, awash with worry and further unease, although of a different sort.

When the soldier looks like himself again, Sherlock relaxes. But as John shifts to another feeling – sorrow and guilt whilst thinking of all the men he couldn't save, and how he left his wife alone, abandoning her – Sherlock tenses again, and he hates seeing John like this, because his entire form fades, dimming like a torch with its batteries going out, and he appears small and feeble and seems to curl in on himself like rolled paper.

Sherlock wants to reach out, then, and restore what "life" John had in him, because he looks unnatural this way; John isn't supposed to be empty and sad. It looks wrong on him. It looks painful. Sherlock has never felt so much empathy for a person before.

"John," Sherlock says when John seems to shrivel up and drip like tears, his form too fluid, "John, please. Come back."

John's eyes open and he immediately straightens out, but not to full height, and he's floating midair, body still a bit folded on itself. He has his arms wrapped around himself, and he's an odd mix between a child and a struggling adult; grief makes him exactly Sherlock's age, and far, far too grey-blue to be himself. There are trails on his face as if he had cried, which is absurd, because ghosts have no tear ducts to cry with. But souls, it seems, are still capable of mourning.

"Sherlock…" John whispers, and his voice is small and young but masculine, not at all like a little boy's.

The dark-haired lad stands and takes a timid step forward. "Are you alright?" he has to ask, the standard question feeling horribly cruel, because _obviously_ John is far from it.

His form wavers. "I can't stop. The thoughts won't go away," John whispers hoarsely, as if his voice is tired from sobbing, even though he hasn't made a sound, and his soul can only mimic rough vocal chords. "I keep thinking of them, Sherlock, all the people I left behind, and all the people who I tried to heal but couldn't. It won't stop."

"I'm didn't mean to trigger this," Sherlock apologizes sincerely, and he feels stiff with hesitation; should he touch John? Try to comfort him? How does one comfort a person, anyhow? Do they embrace? Murmur happier things to trigger less painful thoughts? What does one do in this situation?

He opts for the embrace. It seems like the most logical course of action, considering the countless things Sherlock has seen regarding comfort. He brings up his arms, his hands curling around nearly nothing, and brings the young-looking John closer to his chest.

John unfolds gradually, his limbs stretching down and his arms coming up to cling to Sherlock's shirtfront. He is shorter than Sherlock, now, and he feels… small. Not perhaps in width – they are equally matched there – but the height makes a difference. John didn't reach his adult height until he was nineteen. He feels young, vulnerable; is he younger than Sherlock? Is he the same age? He can't tell. His soul just feels drained and minute, and Sherlock is warm, very warm, and for once, John can feel it.

His face sinks a bit into Sherlock's chest, fazing through, and it's a bit unsettling; he can feel Sherlock's heart speed up, as if the organ were in his head, and he can sense the shiver and goosebumps he's causing in Sherlock's because of his chilly form. But Sherlock strokes his hair and remains perfectly quiet, and it's calming. John's thoughts begin to let up in their vivid detail, and the pain of deep-seated anguish starts to ebb.

It's then, however, that John feels it; the radiant and tender and shy thrum of love in every heartbeat, felt from Sherlock's very core, seeping into him.

It feels good for a second, very nice and soothing, but then the meaning and strength of it slams in to John and he jerks backward, falling out of Sherlock's arms as he passes through them. He suddenly ages fifteen years and is his usual self, albeit shock-faced and pale green.

Sherlock blinks, his eyes flying open. "John? What is it? …John?" and he is worried, and John feels a pang of blame for that, but he can't focus on it. His entire being is a little too jarred.

Sherlock loves him. And the shy, tenderness of it tells him precisely which kind of love it is, and is isn't the sort one feels toward friends and kin. It's… it's much more than that.

"…John, out with it. Did I do something wrong?" and his tone is unbearably flat, guarded. Sherlock thinks he comforted John wrong, and is looking to improve. He doesn't realize what he's shown to the other man.

John covers his face with his hands. He can't answer. He wants to disappear.

He was raised to be against this sort of thing. He was taught that men should not feel that way for other men, and the same went for women and women. In his era, it was the biggest of scandals, and one could get arrested if one was discovered for harboring such love, such want, for another of the same gender. In his mind, he knows that it's immoral and dirty, by his society's standards, and still not very smiled upon by the current 1990's societal standards.

And yet he doesn't feel wronged by it. It feels safe. Sherlock feels safe, and his love feels pure, not dirty or immoral at all. It feels like any other romantic love would, sweet and beautiful, and that's what scares John the most, because everything about his heart welcomes it.

So, for once, when the charcoal mass rises up to meet the soldier and swallow him whole, he lets it. And he only prays he isn't gone too terribly long this time, but a little while – a month or so – doesn't sound like a bad idea. He needs to regroup. He needs to figure out what to do with this unexpected revelation.


	12. Cowering in the Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now it's your turn. I'm telling you to quit stalling, cowering in a graveyard, and go see your friend, wherever he is. I'm sure he won't hate you for leaving him on short notice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working under the assumption that Molly is about 32 when Sherlock is 35, and that Sherlock is 35 in 2012. In case anyone wonders about my math.

"You look sad," a young woman's voice cuts through the black, making him tense all over. John opens his eyes to find himself still here, still in London, but not where he was. He relaxes his energies and looks up.

She's a pretty little thing, dainty and mousy and struggling into womanhood. She's approximately age sixteen, all awkward in nature, but also clearly kind-hearted, if not blunt.

"What's wrong?" she asks, and she cups the back of her skirt to her thighs as she crouches down, knees together, before him. He sits up fully and realizes exactly where he is: the cemetery. She has a bouquet of flowers in the crook of one arm; she's visiting someone's grave.

"I…" And he wonders if he can even explain it.

But he can't. It's a jumble of too many things; like how he can face Death repeatedly, in the form of other specters and memories of gore from war, and yet he ran like a coward from something like sentiments. But there are too many factors complicating matters; war is gruesome, but easy. It's one thing: fighting, killing, and either winning or losing. With Sherlock, however… everything is like an onion, layer after layer: there are barriers before the center can be reached. Barriers like love and friendship and homo-romanticism and age gaps and Life and Death and so, so much more.

So, instead of explaining all that, John Watson asks, "What's your name?"

The girl flushes. "Molly," she says softly. "M-Molly Hooper."

"Hullo, Miss Hooper," he says with the best smile he can muster. He holds out a hand. "I'm John."

"Pleasure to meet you," she says politely, her voice a quiet squeak as she feels his hand and shakes it. "It's a bit cold to be sitting on the ground. Are you okay? Did you…" She bows her head. "Did you lose someone, recently?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," John supplies at length, and he wishes he could sigh. He feels insensitive, but he has to ask following a pause, "Did you?"

"My grandmother," Molly answers with the faintest smile. "But it's all right. I wasn't very close to her. I just thought I ought to bring her some flowers. Daffodils were always her favorite." And she has those same cheery yellow plants in her arm, her sweater bundled up around them.

Molly has donned a lot of layers, John notices, but no jacket. The trees around him are tinting and growing bare; is it autumn? That would make him missing for roughly six months at the least. At the most, eight, depending on the November days. …Or it could have been years. He doesn't know. He can't tell; there's nothing aside from this girl to gauge time.

She carefully rearranges the way the flowers lay and stands. She studies him for a moment, the sun waning overhead. She doesn't look afraid as she asks quietly, "You're not really here, are you?"

John stumbles into standing position. A tad nervously, he counters, "Wh-what makes you say that?"

"It's not warm out, I guess," she murmurs, glancing away, "But it's not as cold as you are. And you don't feel right. I know… bodies," she says, her tone anomalous, "And you don't have one. Not – not like you should, anyway."

The soldier nods leisurely, his arms crossing over his chest. He admits lowly, "It's true. I'm… a ghost."

She looks at him and cracks a hysteric laugh. "Of course you would be. Naturally, that's who I would meet, in a cemetery; a bloomin' ghost." She ceases her laughter with a forlorn sigh and shakes her head at herself. "Maybe I'm going mad." And she turns and starts walking down the rows of headstones, looking for her grandmother's.

John isn't anywhere near his own, even though it's the correct graveyard; his is just on the other side, he thinks. Was he supposed to meet this girl? Is he meant to talk to her to ease her mind, or even his own?

"You're not mad. Anyone who accepts death can see me, that's all," John murmurs to reassure her as he trails after her. "Because I'm real. Others have seen me. –Besides, how could you make me up? I'm a Great War veteran. Not many of those around."

The mousy girl glances back at him and offers a small, less anxious laugh. "That's true. Would you…" She looks unsure. "Do you mind accompanying me? Company is nice."

"Sure, if you'll have me," he says amiably. He follows after her until she reaches her grandmother's marker. She places the flowers down before it and touches the polished granite.

"I want to be a doctor. I coroner, actually. I know it's the strangest thing to want to be," she says shyly, a flush of discomfiture on her cheeks, "But it's what I want to go to Uni for. I think I would be good at it, working with post-mortems." She shakes her head and looks at him. "S-sorry. It's just. That's why I'm accepting of death, like you said. It makes sense why I can see you. I'm… I'm not very normal, am I?"

He touches her shoulder, and she doesn't flinch. Simply stares with doe-like eyes, her braided, wheat-colored hair getting messy in the breeze. "No, you're not, but I have a secret for you: no one is. Being 'normal' is an illusion."

She sincerely laughs then, a light, windchime-like sound, and nods her head. "Yes, well, a ghost would say that, wouldn't it? You kind of defy the norm just being what you are."

"And is that a bad thing?" he says with a raised brow.

Molly shakes her head, still smiling. "No. Unless, um, you're killing people."

"I don't kill people," John guarantees. "Well, I did, in the war, but that was war. But murder as a ghost… Ghosts can't really do it. That's just the bollocks they put in ghost stories to scare people."

"That's comforting," Molly muses. She looks him over. "Do you… erm… for lack of a better word, _haunt_ here? –Uh, no offense, but it just seems… like you would, I guess. Dead with the dead and all."

"No offense taken," the soldier replies unceremoniously. Briefly, he smiles despondently. "But no, I technically don't. I wind up here a lot, but I don't… _linger_ here. I can go where I please."

"That so?" Molly murmurs. "Makes me wonder if I've seen other people around town, then, and just didn't realize they were ghosts because I didn't touch them. You look so solid," she remarks, "Only when the light hits you a certain way when the sun peeps behind the clouds do you look sort of… see-through."

"Yes, so I've been told," John smiles ruefully. He gazes longingly at the horizon past the cemetery gates for a while. The cars look a bit different again. He frowns. "What month is it? In what year?"

"September, 1996. Why?" she wants to know.

John tenses. Four years, gone in a blink? Where was he all that time? Was he lost in translation again? He feels sick. Sherlock is nineteen now, probably in a dorm at a prestigious university, and he has no way of knowing if Sherlock hates him now, or how Sherlock has changed into a man, or what he wants to study in school, or _anything._

He presses his palms to his eyes and feels his body shift in mood, and he must look frightening because Molly gives a little shriek and is suddenly in front of him, panicking. "Oh no; oh, no no no… Are you okay? Did I say something? John?"

He shakes his head and his voice lowers to a wail. "I let him down again," he laments, and he looks up at her, having not even noticed kneeling down before her.

Molly looks conflicted. She stoops to his level and touches his shoulder. "Don't – don't cry. It'll be all right. I'm sure he'll forgive you. Was he a friend of yours? And… is he Living, or Dead?"

"My friend is alive," John says tiredly, calming down. "I didn't mean to leave him for so long. When you're dead, you can't always time out when you come and go, and how long it is until you return." He hangs his head in shame. "And I left him hanging. At the wrong moment. I didn't time it that way, but I was glad for it when it happened. I was _glad."_ He shakes his head and stands, and Molly follows suit. He straightens himself out and tugs on his uniform to erase his possibly disheveled appearance. "I'm sorry. You don't even know me, and I'm making a scene. It's not very gentlemanly of me."

"No, no…" Molly contradicts softly, "It's fine. It's… it's okay." She huffs a sad laugh. "Gosh, if there's anyone you can talk to, it's me. No one ever talks to me."

"I think I was meant to," he whispers, and she cocks her head and asks, 'What was that?' but he doesn't respond. Instead, he makes a throat-clearing sound to change the topic. "Why don't they, Molly? A bright, pretty young girl like you. Why don't they?"

"Oh, um, I don't know," she says, jumpy and timid. She brings her braid around her shoulder and runs her hands over it, fingering the un-plaited hair stemming off the tie at the bottom. "I-I mean, I have friends, but… they aren't good ones. I know that. And I have rotten luck with boys."

"That's a shame," John remarks softly. "You seem like a wonderful person. Pure."

" _Pure_?" she repeats, and her face makes a scrunching, flushed expression that makes John chuckle heartily.

"Oh, I don't mean anything perverse. I just mean… Kind-spirited. Understanding. Strong. Brave, despite the odds." He light brushes one of her wrists with a fingertip to still her fumbling hands on her hair. "I can see it in you: you'll grow into a wonderful woman one day, and you won't even know it until someone else tells you so," the soldier predicts, and this definitely renders Molly speechless. She ducks her head and touches her face and thanks him quietly. He smiles and nods, and then he suddenly feels a weight lift from him.

"…Are you going to go see him soon, then?" Molly asks after a pause during which the pair of them walk to the front gates. They stop before the iron bars and Molly looks over at John, something sad but hopeful in her eyes.

"Why do you want to work with dead bodies, Molly? If it's not too impolite to ask," he would like to know.

She smiles a bit and glances at her feet on the chilly ground. "They don't judge. They don't need social tending to. I can just… do a job without having to be so awkward with everyone. And… and I like knowing people's stories. When you perform an autopsy, you get to know what killed the person, what sort of diet they had, how good of health they were in, how old they are without their appearance throwing you off, and just… every little thing, like if they chewed their nails or dyed their hair. It's fascinating to me, getting to know someone without talking to them. Being privy to information because it's medical, yes, but because it needs to be known for the deceased's sake, as well as their family's sakes."

John blinks once or twice. Then he taps the tip of her nose with a finger. She jerks backward, blinking. He laughs. "See, Molly? That's why you're a wonderful person, and anyone who doesn't see it is a fool."

She smiles, then, broad and bright and toothy. She moves in to hug him, and he lets her. "Thank you, John. I… I needed to hear that from someone, I think." She releases him and gestures toward the gates, her spirits uplifted and her aura shining. "Now it's your turn. I'm telling you to quit stalling, cowering in a graveyard, and go see your friend, wherever he is. I'm sure he won't hate you for leaving him on short notice."

"I pray not," John mumbles to himself. He shakes his head and nods. "Thank you, Molly." And he holds out his hand to shake goodbye. She takes it. "Finish school, go to university, become a doctor. You'll be brilliant at it."

"Th-thank you," she says, flushing again, and smiles. They drop hands and part ways; she takes one side of the row in one direction, and John drifts in the exact opposite.

He decides to go home first; Maris can probably tell him which institution Sherlock attends, and ask her how Sherlock has been in his absence; it might prove useful in estimating how Sherlock will react to seeing him again after four years.

.:0:.

"Oh!" Maris exclaims as she opens the door following John's knock on it. She touches a hand to her chest and gives a waning smile. "John, it's you! Come in, come in," she urges, stepping aside. "My, haven't seen you in years! Got pulled away again, it seems."

"Yes, unfortunately," he murmurs as he drifts into the house, feeling less attached, like his feet won't work without Sherlock around. He smoothes his hand down his jaw and grips his chin for a moment before dropping his hand. "And thanks to a kind young girl at the cemetery, I know for how long. Sherlock should be at university now, shouldn't he?"

"He is," Mrs. Holmes answers with a sigh. "Would you like to know where so you might visit him?"

"In a moment, yes. But… Maris, if you could tell me how he reacted to me vanishing again, I would really appreciate it."

"Oh, of course," she says as she takes a seat and picks up her cup of afternoon tea. "You want to know what sort of mood he'll be in when he sees you. That's understandable."

Watson simply nods. He takes a seat across from her and crosses his legs, hands resting in his lap.

Around a sip, she begins, "It was the strangest thing. After you left, he didn't say a word about it. When I asked him, he simply shrugged and said that you do this sometimes, and I do recall the first time you were gone for a few years in a row, but I honestly hoped it wouldn't happen again." She shakes her head, sipping again before putting her cup into its saucer. "But it isn't your fault. You can't control it. Sherlock explained it all very matter-of-factly to me. And that's what was odd about it: he didn't seem perturbed in the least. He was very… _adult_ about it. He accepted it and moved on."

"Oh. Well, that's… that's good, I think." He pauses, legs uncrossing as he shifts uncomfortable. "It is good, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure," Mrs. Holmes remarks with a note of distress in her tone. "I worry: how did you leave him?"

"I was upset," John admits jadedly. He glances away, his hands tying together. "We were doing an exercise in which I brought a memory or thought to mind that would make me react emotionally, and he was recording how my appearance shifted according to the emotion displayed. –Um, for example: rage makes me appear as I did in death, uniform torn and bloodied. But I opened myself up to a bout of depression following a sadder thought, and Sherlock tried to comfort me, as a friend would. But in the midst of that, I… vanished."

He leaves out the shock and pushing away and realization of Sherlock's feelings. He doesn't want to make her fret more than she already is. And, frankly, he doesn't want to mention it again if he can. At least Sherlock isn't aware; this will make things easier. And perhaps, after four years, those feelings are gone and they can be normal friends again, because then John won't feel so… so _at a loss_ , for lack of a better term.

"Oh, I see," the middle-aged woman replies quietly. "It should be fine, then, I wager."

"I hope so."

.:0:.

He stands outside the university with a trepid quake running down his arms to rattle his fingertips. He takes a few deep breaths as he does – by turning tangible and intangible again whilst moving; in this case, pacing the length of the wide sidewalk before the front steps of the school – and debates with himself over and over.

He shouldn't be this nervous about seeing an old friend.

John takes another "breath" and slowly walks up to the stairs. However, it's here that he stops again. He peers up at the doors at the top of the cement steps and, finally, walks up them after pacing before them for over two hours straight.

.:0:.

Invisibly, John passes through the main building and locates the dormitory assignments, Holmes, Sherlock, listed amongst them. He memorizes the building name, floor number, and room number.

The school is, in fact, highly prestigious, and, John notes, the far opposite one from the one Mycroft attended. Their sibling rivalry has only gotten worse, hasn't it? It's a bit sad.

John finds the building near a couple other dorms and slips inside. He takes the lift to Sherlock's floor, and, remaining invisible, paces down the corridor to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's roommate is out, John notices as he turns his head intangible and peeks into the dorm. Sherlock is at a screen, his hands typing slowly on a keyboard much like a typewriter's, but flatter. He's leaning forward, grabbing hold of a little circular device, and clicking a button or two on it, then resuming his slow typing.

John steps through the door and moves to the far corner, merely observing his friend, remaining anonymous by keeping himself invisible.

Sherlock shivers subtly and leans back in his chair to steeple his hands in front of his mouth. His eyes fly across the screen – reading? – and he makes a grunting noise of dislike. He leans forward and presses down one button for a long time, then clicking it a few times near the end. Some of the lines on the screen disappear. Erasing something he typed, perhaps? It's so strange. What sort of technology is he using, anyhow? And how expensive was it? Nothing too great for his family or savings, John's sure, but it's another curios thing of progress that John wonders about.

John forces himself out of the corner and moves around the desk Sherlock is perched at. He looks at Sherlock's face, and my, how the four years have been kind.

Sherlock is very much a man, now. Taller, leaner, more uniquely handsome. His cheekbones are sharper, his lips fuller even as he tugs them into a straight line, and his jaw is sleeker, his nose more pronounced in a decidedly good way. His eyes are as quick and clever as ever, the gears churning behind them quite visibly.

John feels something warm and pleasant stir inside him, he pushes it down and banishes it. He would swallow, if he could. He stands up stiffly and steps off to the side. When should he reveal himself?

Anxiety leaks from his form and appears to chill Sherlock, because he shivers again, more noticeably this time, and sits up straighter. He glances around, frowning.

"That's odd," he comments as he stands, checking the thermometer near (what John assumes is Sherlock's) bed (and John can just imagine the reasons for it being there). "Hmm. Thought so. Sudden drop in temperature too drastic to be natural for the central heating/cooling system to make, nor to happen naturally from the outdoors, particularly at this hour of day." He spins on his heel and declares boldly, "Spirit, I know you're here. I'm familiar with your kind. Manifest yourself, if you can. I won't be scared off."

The army captain rubs his hands on the front of his uniform and forces himself to stand at ease. In one ripple, he reveals himself, invisibility melting away like chalk on the sidewalk during a rainstorm.

Sherlock's facial expression changes instantly from schooled to wide-eyed, his lips parting from their stoic shape to a steady inhale. Even from across the room, John can feel the spark of orchid-colored energy the sight of him ignites in Sherlock, and it takes all of John's self control not to give into the shudder without a definite origin that dares to shake him from the inside and out.

" _John_ ," Sherlock breathes, and his eyes roam John's body for a second, as if searching for injury, and then he's swallowing and shoving his hands into his pant pockets. "It's good to see you again. Where did you go off to this time?" And he seems so casual and nonchalant about it, his expression clearing to information-gathering-only, making John feel cold.

"I can't say," the spook replies quietly. "I don't remember. Everything was darkness. And then I woke up in the cemetery."

"Too bad," Sherlock answers as he looks away and moves back to his desk chair, sitting down and taking the circular device attached to a chord into his hand again. He uses it to click something on the screen and make the lines zoom to the bottom bar on the screen. He turns back around and cocks his head. "I had hoped I could track a pattern. You really must find a way of warning me of these things, John. It would be useful to know when to expect your absence."

"I wish it wasn't this way," John tries, stepping forward a short distance. He feels frayed, like worn denim. "And I'm sorry for always leaving you. I'm not a very good friend."

"It's all right," Sherlock retorts stiffly. "I have others, now. My roommate, Sebastian, makes for a decent friend. No one I like very much, but he seems amused by my deductions of people, and he appreciates it when I am able to tell him if his newest girlfriend is a cheater or not."

Sherlock's tone is all wrong. He is calculating and too matured and nearly unfeeling. "What happened to you these past four years?" John asks with a deep furrow in his brows.

Sherlock lifts his chin slightly. "Nothing. I grew up. I lost all sense of childish romanticisms and deleted all unnecessary information, clearing it for university life and lessons. I have renovated my mind to be a palace, and have organized everything about myself. I am a finely tuned machine, one of Sebastian's less cordial girlfriends has told me, and I think it's a perfectly suitable analogy. You haven't missed much; only the transition from who I was to the improved version I am now." He turns swiftly around in his chair and brings up the text on the screen again, clicking away at a faster pace than before.

"Sherlock," John murmurs, "I'm sorry. I'm terribly, incredibly _sorry_."

He can't say it enough, he can tell. He left Sherlock worried and puzzled and it was wrong, because in that moment, he had _wanted_ an escape. And that's never happened before, not has forgetting where he's gone. The two facts might be linked, but John can't think of that right now; emotional distress clogging up memories isn't uncommon, so it doesn't matter. What matters is how his leave has made Sherlock this… this _sociopathic being._

Sherlock's energies are all wrong as well, nothing but distance and reclusion, the spark upon first sight of John absolutely buried.

He brings his arms around Sherlock from behind, resting his chin in Sherlock's hair and closing his eyes, trying, if he can, to pass calmer, gentler energies from his soul to Sherlock's.

He feels Sherlock tense up, and then, gradually, sink back against his chair and leveling out into something with less hurt and coldness.

"I'm sorry," John repeats. "If I can help it, I won't leave again."

"But you will," Sherlock remarks softly, acceptingly. "You can't do a thing about it. You will leave me again, and I will have to continue on my own, as I have three times now for two weeks, five years, and four years. Even if you are gone for merely a day, you'll still be gone, and I have no choice but to go about dealing with my life as I always have. It's nothing serious, nothing I can't handle. It's how things are. Most people, when they lose a friend, it is permanently. I am fortunate that, at least, no matter how long it takes, my friend returns. I shouldn't mind, then, logically, whether or not you leave me when I still need you."

His voice is flat and quiet and factual, but in their embrace, John can feel the depth of sorrow in Sherlock's spirits form saying all of this. And it breaks his heart.

John acts on impulse and moves his head to press a cool kiss to Sherlock's temple. Sherlock's eyes close and he gasps minutely, hands coming up to grab hold of John's on his collarbones. Beneath his fingers, John can feel Sherlock's heart kick up, blood rushing faster.

"You care about me," Sherlock states, his eyes opening and his head bowing. "But you don't know, John, how I care about you. You are, single-handedly, the most important person in my life. You know that. But you don't know what that means to me."

John stands up fully and rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. He sees his Christmas gift to Sherlock hanging on the wall adjacent to Sherlock's bed, and on the shelf above the head of the bed, he spies the human skull and, beside it, a very familiar rubber ball. Everything reminds him of home, of their time together over the years.

"I have an idea," John murmurs. He gives Sherlock's shoulders a squeeze, then lets go.

Sherlock resumes writing his paper on the thing he informs John is a "computer," and John moves to sit on the bed, finding comfort in the eased tension in the room.


	13. Under Stone, Above Magma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why is that, John? Why would I express grief for you, someone who has been dead for decades, and not my own father, who has been alive until recently?"

Sebastian can't see John, and Sherlock only talks to John when Sebastian is out of the dorm room, which winds up being very often. John doesn't go to class with Sherlock, but he's around when Sherlock returns.

Sherlock does homework for many more hours than he used to. He writes papers, mostly, as expected of college-level work. While he works, he murmurs to himself every now and then, sometimes voicing his opinions and questions to John specifically, and when his computer "freezes," he gets frustrated and kicks under the desk.

He never goes out with anyone. They come into the dorm sometimes to see Sebastian, and they converse with Sherlock in brief, but in the end, Sherlock gets up and switches out the social atmosphere for the quiet of the library or anywhere quiet that is still open to the public. And if it isn't, Sherlock breaks in and goes there anyway, John tagging closely behind.

Sherlock's university years pass like this. John begins to fear that he is nothing but a nuisance, that he is haunting Sherlock, but if he is, Sherlock doesn't act like it. He simply talks to John when he can and sometimes even when he shouldn't, and doesn't care.

.:0:.

After Sherlock receives his diploma, completing university, his father dies.

Sherlock attends the funeral, but only because John talks him into doing so.

"Why should I go?" he had complained sourly as John helped button up Sherlock's black dress shirt and do up his necktie.

"He was your father!" John reeled, hands temporarily ceasing their deft act of tying. "It's disrespectful not to attend. He's half of you. And he _raised_ you."

"Hardly," twenty-two year old Sherlock had retorted in a mumble. "Mum has always been here more for me than he has. He thought I was too abnormal. He didn't care that I had a perfect grade-point-average and didn't always get into fights. He didn't even care that I didn't have any friends. Arguably, his genes are the only things he ever gave me that benefited me. And even then, those are minimal in the end. He was a horrible man, and I hated him."

"Don't say that," John said softly, and he finished his task and took a step back. He touched Sherlock's chin and forced a smile. "You're lying. Part of you loved him, because he was your father, and he did do a few things for you. He helped pay for your college tuition, for one thing. For another," and John forced Sherlock to look him in the eye, his cool, hollow fingers grasping Sherlock's chin, "Your mother, Mycroft, and I will be mighty disappointed in you if you don't go."

Sherlock had groaned, but he didn't protest any further.

And so attend he does. He stands beside John in the front row, near the end. Everyone in the Holmes family is there, along with a few on Maris' side to support her in the loss of her husband. Everyone is in black, a few of the younger children in white. No one says much. No one sniffles or cries much, either. Everyone is melancholy and a bit too quiet. It leaves John feeling squirmy on the inside, utterly uncomfortable and out of place.

As the ceremony comes to a close and the casket is lowered, Sherlock turns to John and mutters, "We can go now," rather darkly. He fast-walks out of the cemetery, leaving his mother and brother behind. His face is completely unreadable. Watson tags along behind him, utterly helpless.

Sherlock's brisk pace comes to a slow, but not before the front gates. He's instead near his ghostly companion's grave, and staring down at it blankly.

"I don't feel anything," Sherlock admits without shame. "Not even anger, like I thought I might. I feel indifferent. I can't seem to find it in myself to cry, or curse, or crumble. I just… don't care. I don't care, and my father just died. That isn't natural, John. I know that I am supposed to feel _something,_ but I don't. Not even numbness, which is a sensation that can also be felt during mourning. But I don't even feel that. I won't even mourn my own father's passing."

He looks to John then, and there is a spark of emotion, a blip of blue, that tinges the outer edge of Sherlock's form.

"But I feel plenty when I look at your grave. I feel everything I would were I to grieve someone's death. I look at your tombstone and can't seem to rein in a single sentiment that floods me," Sherlock says in wonder. "Why is that, John? Why would I express grief for _you_ , someone who has been dead for decades, and not my own father, who has been alive until recently?"

The question sounds rhetorical. Sherlock must already know the answer. But the army doctor doesn't. He shakes his head.

Sherlock doesn't respond, chooses to keep it to himself. He merely looks back down at the head marker and touches it, nearly a caress, and closes his eyes. Then, abruptly, he opens them and turns away. "Come. We should return to my family. They will be looking for me, and it's time to head home. My mother needs all the support she can get. Even though she clearly hasn't been in love with my father in years, she still loved him as a person does when they care about someone they live with, and the loss is very keen for her. She will want me nearby, even though I don't care to be."

The spook can't reply much. He merely nods and follows Sherlock as he paces quickly back the way they came, and then toward the entrance. Unlike most funeral days, today is only partly cloudy, and mostly sunny; too cheerful. It seems to mock the late Mr. Holmes, as if maliciously saying with its pleasant weather that the world is a brighter place without him.

It makes John feel unwell. He's dizzy the whole way home. And his heart aches. He wants nothing more than to take poor Sherlock into his arms and never let go.

But it gets worse, because later that day, it's the first time Sherlock picks up a cigarette and lights it.

He doesn't become a chain-smoker, but he becomes a frequent enough one that it worries John a little.

.:0:.

The Holmes household is eerily silent for a week. Then Sherlock can't handle it anymore; he decides to move out. Mycroft already had years ago, and Sherlock has been somewhat freeloading. But no more. He makes his apologies to his mother and starts looking for places to live, mostly flatshares; anything affordable.

"Are you sure this is wise? You don't even have a stable income yet," John remarks.

"I have years' worth of money saved from odd and end jobs and holidays, thanks to my scholarship-funded and parentally-funded terms at university. I can manage something quaint for the time being," Sherlock insists. "Besides," he adds with a quirk to his lips, "I'll have you by my side to prevent me from doing anything too rash. Our friendship and your sense of morality is good for that."

John clenches his jaw, tempted to click his tongue in annoyance. Instead, he shrugs, because like it or not, Sherlock has a point.

.:0:.

"That's fifteen flatmates you've lost, now, Sherlock. Why is it you can't seem to keep anyone around?" the ghost comments disappointedly as he plops down onto Sherlock's sofa and runs a hand over his face. "It's been two years, and you've gained and lost as many in that time, with breaks in between 'shares! How is that possible?"

"Well, in my defense, a few of them were accepting of death enough to see you, and left immediately our of fear. They weren't flatmates at all; barely more than potential options," Sherlock returns smoothly as he puts out a cigarette in his ashtray. He brings his violin to his chin and starts to play, attempting to drown out any further conversation they might have on the subject.

John again feels the urge to sigh, of course is incapable of it, and merely shakes his head instead. "You're hopeless." But he's smiling faintly.

.:0:.

Watson disappears shortly after Sherlock turns twenty-five. He doesn't appear again for another three years. Sherlock carries on as usual, but deep down, he's longing all the while for John's return.

.:0:.

"I'm sorry. I left you again, even when I promised I wouldn't," the spook murmurs as he finds himself in London again after a lengthy and arduous trip through China this time, aiding a slaughtered family of spirits find their way to the Light.

He steps tentatively forward and brings Sherlock toward him until they are about waist-to-middle, their chests not quite aligned properly. It feels like the right things to do. Sherlock doesn't resist, and his hands fist at his sides, resisting wrapping around the ghost and clinging.

"I knew you would. It was only a matter of time. You cannot remain, hard as you try, for too long, although the past few years have been the longest, nearly a decade this time," Sherlock answers with a schooled tone.

Sherlock's face has matured and he stands so tall that John has to look up in a way that feels like higher than usual; it's Sherlock's confidence. He's been working with the police during the three years of John's absence. He's built up quite the reputation in the Yard for being a detective. A consulting one, one that the police go to when they need help on a complicated and confusion case and don't know how to crack it. He's a last resort, but still a resort, and his genius is finally be recognized by some people, even if others, like a few on the force, call him a freak for it.

"How old are you?" John has to ask. It's becoming his only way to determine the passing of time; the year itself doesn't matter, it's just a number. What point Sherlock is at in his life is what counts, now.

"Twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine; I'll be thirty soon. I'm almost as old as you are," Sherlock says thickly. He swallows and adverts his gaze. "I'm glad you're back, John. It's been boring without your presence in my daily life. You're my only constant; I don't even associate much with Mycroft, at least not by choice. Do you know that?"

"…I do now," the World War I casualty replies, trying to keep his emotions in check. He pats Sherlock on the arm, and moves to lightly touch his face, just for a fleeting second. "But I shouldn't be, Sherlock. I'm not very consistent, being what I am, and even as you age, I won't, and someday, I really ought to find a way to move on. I have no right to linger here with the Living."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly snaps it shut as he thinks better of it. He licks his lips and turns on his heel, his long coat flowing with him. "I can't talk about this now. Let's go home. I found another flat, something I can afford without a flatmate for a while, thanks to all this police business, as they insist on paying me whenever they use my brains."

John follows Sherlock out of the cemetery and into a cab. They take it all the way across London to Sherlock's tiny flat. The bull head with headphones is on one of the walls; Sherlock has a new black armchair, faux leather; and there are books all scattered about, and a table full of lab equipment.

It feels like home already, but that's simply because it feels like Sherlock Holmes.

.:0:.

"John," Sherlock begins one evening. It's the eve of his thirtieth birthday. "Do you know what I want for my birthday?"

"No, and I've been trying to figure it out for a bloody long time. I still want to get you something, like I said I would," the ghost frowns.

"Perfect. I have a suggestion for you, then," Sherlock says casually. He pretends to tune his violin, and John doesn't seem to notice that it's only a distraction. "If you would be so kind as to give me a kiss – something purely experimental, I assure you – then I would be content. I can record it like we used to when I was young and we tried out things having to do with your state of being."

The words come fast and light, and John has to replay them a couple times to comprehend what it is Sherlock said.

"You… want me to _kiss_ you?" John clarifies slowly, and God, he would blush if he could. They are unusually close, he knows, but he still has his reservations, and oh no, this just shows that Sherlock's feelings for John haven't quite gone away after all these years. In fact, they might even be stronger, and that intimidates the doctor just a little.

"You've done it before to my temple and my hair, and, once, my hand when I was ill, so it shouldn't be too different. And you're able to embrace me. But I wonder how different other forms of contact feel, and if they are as solid as the real thing, because, to memory, your lips don't feel like normal human lips, considering your spiritual form made of ectoplasm and energy," Sherlock says, and it's total bollocks and they both know it. Sherlock isn't a sexual person – he doesn't crave certain contact, not like other people do, and he rarely touches himself, if ever – but he seems to want this. He seems to genuinely want to kiss John, but he is afraid to, so he's asking for John's consent beforehand.

"You idiot," John mutters, form flickering for a moment, "You don't need to spew this nonsense. If that's what you want, then just say it. Quit trying to justify it for my sake."

Sherlock swallows and looks away. "Fine, then. I want a kiss from you for my birthday. That's all; no logic behind it. I just want one."

"That's all you had to say," comes the soft reply. "With anyone else, you would have been so blunt about it."

"You're not anyone else," Sherlock reminds a tad frostily. He looks at his ghostly companion, then, and his lips part. "It's midnight. It might as well be my birthday, even if the hour isn't exact to my date of birth. Can I have it now?"

John feels a shudder of energy zip through his body in increments. He clenches his fists to keep his fingertips from wavering. But he's nodding. "Sure." He pauses as he steps closer. "Happy thirtieth birthday, Sherlock."

And he bends down into a nearly perfect L-shape to where Sherlock sits in his chair, violin falling to his lap and resting there. John's hands remain at his sides, but one of Sherlock's comes up to coyly cup the airy coolness of John's cheek. When their lips meet, Sherlock finds, it is like kissing a pliant mirror, chilled and smooth but moving. To John, however, Sherlock is warm and soft and alive, his fleshy mouth feeling so very opposite of John's own.

And it is the strangest thing, they both think, but strange suits them, so they don't really pay the concept of the Living kissing a remnant of the Dead any mind.

Because, in the end, they are still both _people,_ people who care about one another, and that's all they ever have been.


	14. Life Doesn't Carry On, It Hurries On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And idly John wonders just what he's allowed to transpire.

"I want more," Sherlock demands two days following his birthday. "I can't have it be a one-time thing, John. And I can't find it in myself to apologize, either."

"It's that addictive personality of yours," the doctor notes. He fidgets. He knows exactly what Sherlock is referring to, and it puts him on edge, but he tries to mask it with logic, like Sherlock tends to do. "Once you have a taste of something – like cigarettes or criminal cases – you don't want to stop having it as long as it stimulates your mind in some way."

Sherlock smiles that way he does when John is, for once, being clever. "Precisely. It's not my fault that I become addicted to things, which is why I won't apologize. And having you within close proximity, preferably touching me in some way, is stimulating for my mind – chemicals are triggered and it's exhilarating – which means I will continue to ask for more until you give it to me, lest I take it by force. And I'd rather not do the latter."

"Fine, fine," the specter concedes. He grunts as he stands and removes his cap, running a hand through his cropped hair. He can't believe he's doing this, giving in like this. But he also can't see why he wouldn't, considering… well. _Considering._ "Come here, then."

Sherlock eagerly does so, sliding off his stool and leaving a recent experiment of his stewing in its petri dish.

John takes Sherlock's face in both hands and oddly feels not the slightest hint of shame as he brings the taller man down to his height and presses their mouths together. Sherlock's hands scramble for a moment, seeking purchase, and find it on the army captain's shoulders.

Something strong floods John's senses, and it isn't Sherlock's scent or body heat or anything physical; it feels more emotional than that, and it makes him feel strong and almost alive again, minus having a respiratory system in working order.

He lifts himself up onto his toes to keep Sherlock's neck from craning, and he floats scant millimeters off the ground to angle his head correctly. Sherlock opens his mouth, and John wonders if it only feels like misty fog to Sherlock when he opens his own mouth to lace tongues. Whatever the case, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind; one of his hands slides up to grasp what he can of John's hair, and that's enough.

When they part, Sherlock is breathing slightly heavier than usual, and John touches the heels of his shoes back down to the floor of the small flat, his feet nearly giving out and making him sink into the wood.

The detective doesn't say anything. He simply stares, intrigued, and touches John's face with both hands, thumbs running over the shell of John's form. He leans in, presses a chaste kiss to the corner of John's mouth, and then walks away. He's itching for a cigarette.

And idly John wonders just what he's allowed to transpire.

.:0:.

Some women are interested in Sherlock. But of course they would be; he's attractive and devilishly intelligent and his charms are uniquely powerful. But when they try to openly flirt with him or ask him out on a date, Sherlock declines. And if they ask why, he tells them, simply, that he is involved with someone else.

And John is usually there, witnessing all of this, unseen by any of the women's eyes. And, technically, Sherlock isn't lying.

They don't have a strictly sexual relationship, nor a strictly friendly one. John is a ghost, and certainly not an incubus, therefore incapable of having sex, but that doesn't seem to interest Sherlock anyway. Instead, they are mildly together; hand-holding and cuddling and kissing is within John's abilities, and as weird as it may be, Sherlock isn't fazed in the slightest, and he likes it the way it is. So that's what they do, what they have. And any time spent together takes on a new feel to it, like a date without a specific event in mind.

Sometimes, Watson isn't sure how he got into this mess. Sometimes he wonders if it really began simply with Sherlock turning thirty, or if it was a slow build from long before then. And sometimes he feels consumed with guilt, because Sherlock should have relationships – he deserves them, and might like them if the person is a good compliment to Sherlock – but not with the doctor, because he is part of the deceased and not-fully-here and can't give Sherlock much. And worse still, he is like a secret because he isn't always visible and certainly shouldn't exist, and that isn't healthy for Sherlock; John's sure it isn't.

But at the same time, he can't end it. He loves Sherlock; he knows that with all his being. He has never said it aloud, never expressed it even in written words, but it's the truth. He loves the man through and through, and the last thing he wants is to hurt him. So if it's a romantic relationship Sherlock wants, John is willing to give it to him; even if he does lack a living, breathing body to supply it in full.

.:0:.

Watson vanishes for another three or so years. He's yanked away by that unseen force and pulled along his destined thread to America for a while, aiding another ghost. He wonders why it's always him who does this, or if other ghosts do it, too, and if it has anything to do with being a doctor or around for approximately ninety years?

But it hardly matters. What matters is that he's abandoned Sherlock again, and God, does that _smart._ It smarts like no physical wound ever could, and it throbs worse than one. John would rather be run through with a blade than experience this guilt and pain and undying worry over what Sherlock is up to, how Sherlock must feel, and so soon – with months – after their getting "together."

John forever feels the urge to sigh and thinks he afterlife is becoming a giant metaphor for the act of sighing for every reason there is to sigh, and it weight heavily down upon him like an anvil.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he murmurs to himself as he closes his eyes and greets the nightmares of his time as a living man like an old friend, despite the gory nature of the bits that are memories of war. "So, so sorry…"

.:0:.

And in his absence this time, Sherlock picks up a new addiction and tries it out for a while, and there might be a few danger nights that Mycroft has to bring him out of, and a drugs bust or two from the Yard.

John isn't there to witness a scrap of it, and it's just as well, Sherlock thinks, because he would hate to have John see him this way, drugged up and slipping in and out of criminal cases, his mind teased and vibrant and dizzy all at once. It's the seven-percent solution, and it really isn't _too_ terrible, but it would worry his dear specter, and Sherlock knows John must worry enough.

But he isn't doing this because John is gone. He swears that he isn't. And he'll stop before John comes back; he'll quit smoking, too. He _swears_ on his _life,_ and Sherlock very much likes living, so his promise is a solid one.

Yet still he murmurs as he fades in and out of time, his solution to his racing mind clouding his veins, "I'm sorry, Watson. So, so sorry…"

.:0:.

When John returns, Sherlock has moved into a new flat, one on Baker Street, under a sweet old landlady by the name of Mrs. Hudson. She can't see John, but then, she seems to kindly to need to, anyhow. It might disturb her. She is a dear little thing, and John likes her. She's like a softer version of Mrs. Holmes, and she seems good for Sherlock.

"I've missed a lot," John remarks as Sherlock embraces him upon first sight. He chuckles warily and closes his eyes, pressing his hands against the heat of Sherlock's back, even covered in clothing as it is. "How have you been?"

"Unimportant. Don't fret over it. You're here again, and that's all that counts. Our lives are mere transport when we are separated. However, our lives are noteworthy when we are together. That is how I see it," Sherlock answers swiftly, thankful when John accepts this with a nod and allows Sherlock to skip over the ugly things John wasn't here to see, and doesn't need to know about.

But, Sherlock explains, he is running out of money and needs a flatmate. That is the current problem, because, really, who would put up with a person like him? He's tried it all before, and John has seen how poorly all of those situations have worked out.

This is when John meets Mike Stamford. He's an acquaintance of Sherlock's, and he says that he will try to help Sherlock find someone to split the cost. Someone in a similar situation, perhaps.

Mike can see John. He can see him because Mike is overweight and accepts that he might die of it one day, and he doesn't mind. He gets to know John. He sees how important John is to Sherlock.

"You know, I know a John Watson from in the day. He's off in Afghanistan, if my memory serves," Stamford remarks with a hearty chuckle one evening. "Probably off getting shot at, the poor man."

"John Watson, is it? There are many Johns, but not many Watsons. I know because I've looked. And I think I missed the recent generations, ones that would be roughly my age. He could be your relative, John," Sherlock adds.

"Oh?" the ghost inquires, tone aloof as he busies himself with dusting Sherlock's flat; really, the man never cleans. "What does he do, Mike? Do you know?"

"Last I heard, he's made himself into a doctor, like you. And I think a captain, too."

"He must be a relation, indeed. A right incarnate," Sherlock muses with humor in his voice, but no smile on his face or in his eyes. "I'd like to meet him to compare the two."

"Surely you don't believe in reincarnations. And wouldn't I have had to move on in order for him to really be me?" John snorts scoffingly. He feels uncomfortable; something about this terrifies him.

"Oh, certainly not. Reincarnation isn't real, of course; souls aren't recycled. But that could mean he is a family history buff and was inspired to go into the service like much of his family before him, and perhaps his talents and interests have always allied with medical science. He could be a great- or great-great-grandson of yours, John, named after you, and perhaps aspiring to be like you because of his name. And for all we know, he might look like you; souls can't be recycled, but genes can be passed down, and that can lead to many of the same traits, both in personality and physicality," Sherlock answers, speed-talking again, but being crystal clear.

"Maybe," Watson murmurs thoughtfully. His processes feel slowed; something definitely throws him off about all of this. He drops his task and feels his form flicker, ectoplasm in his semi-veins bubbling like a kettle.

"If I run into him, I'll be sure to introduce the pair of you to him," the chunky man smiles. To Sherlock, he says, "Who knows? If he returns from abroad soon, he'll be living solely on army pension, and might be looking for a flatshare." But to the third party in the room, he adds, "And if he's anything like you, then he'd be perfect for being Sherlock's flatmate, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do," the ghost agrees quietly. And he genuinely thinks so. And that must be what's scaring him this drastically.

Sherlock looks John over, and he must see something perplexing, because he frowns; and then he must understand something, because the frown disappears and is replaced with one of Sherlock's deduction faces. He turns to Stamford and states, "Ah, well, I think you ought to be going now, Mike. It was lovely having you, but I have a few things to tend to."

This is unsettling. It's as if some vast question is being answered, some prayer is being granted, and it's happening too slowly and yet not fast enough, and John's head is reeling. All this time he's been stuck on Earth, and drifting in and out of Sherlock's life, he feels like it's been for some purpose, despite its lengthy, temporary circumstances. – Oh, that sounds awful. It hasn't come out right at all. But John doesn't known how else to explain it, save for in vague oxymorons.

Comprised of the feeling of being on the brink of something life-altering, John gets up and steps out of the room, Sherlock sparing him a passing glance before saying his goodbyes to Stamford. The man calls out his own goodbyes to John, which John hastily returns before retreating completely.

With their company gone, Sherlock follows John into the spare bedroom upstairs and touches his shoulder. "You're stressed over this knowledge of your descendant and the slim chance he might be a match for my problem. Why? Surely you know that he won't replace you."

The deceased man merely shakes his head. He can't find the words or definite emotions as to why. It's all a jumble inside him, and he isn't sure he can get an ounce of it out. All he feels is this strong pull and the vaguely nauseous feeling in his soul that's leading him elsewhere, but is different than the absences his sometimes takes.

"I might be gone for a couple weeks," John says to Sherlock, speaking at last. "But not years. I'll be back soon. There is… something I feel like I need to see or do."

Sherlock looks skeptical, but he gradually nods. "All right, John. I trust you." And his eyes soften as he stoops to press a kiss to the ghost's mouth, and John returns it whole-heartedly before stepping backward, his hand on the taller man's cheek, thumb stroking idly over that sharp cheekbone of his.

The doctor has decided to tail Mike invisibly for a week. Because that thread that strings John along is urging him to, and for once, it's not to pull him away from London, but to guide him through it, and he can't help but be curious as to why.

And he's positive that it has something to do with the individual mentioned today: his possible doppelganger of the Living.


	15. Echo, Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Stamford is one of those people who have a very, very simple routine that they practice day in and day out without many alterations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE ENJOY THIS AMAZING FANART OF MY STORY BY THE LOVELY KHORAZIR (AND WEEP UPON VIEWING, AS I DID): http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/21108164710/inspired-by-touch-the-fleeting-chill-of-air-by
> 
> Playlist for this chapter: "No Light, No Light" by Florence and the Machine; "Echo" by Jason Walker (of which this chapter is titled); "Permanent" by David Cook; "A Thousand Years (violin cover)" by the Vitamin String Quartet; and "I Gave You All" by Mumford and Sons.

Mike Stamford is one of those people who have a very, very simple routine that they practice day in and day out without many alterations.

The spook doesn't follow Mike to his home – some things are best kept private, like sleeping and showering and the like – but he does come to wait outside each morning when Mike sets out for work. And he follows Mike as the man gets coffee, takes a lunch break to the same place, performs his job, and everyday, before going home, he stops at the park to read the paper and feed the birds.

Nine days of this. Nine days of invisibly tagging along to see what he can see, his thread tugging on him to keep it up, as unfruitful as it has been.

But then it happens.

It's a mild day, sun cool and breeze low, the clouds sparse, and it's the tenth day of his invisible stalking, right when he's about to give up on it and return to Sherlock.

Mike is sitting on the park bench, paper in hand, as per usual, and John is sitting beside him, looking out at the paths and the birds and the cars whizzing by in the distance. He feels to very out of place, even while he's invisible; he truly doesn't belong here any longer, does he? His uniform feels stiff and outdated, and there is a phantom itch on his head where his hat is nestled in his cropped hair. He shifts uncomfortably and drops his gaze to his shoes for a while.

Footsteps approach; the solider lifts his head. A man is walking by. Limping, actually, on a cane, but otherwise walking briskly, possibly having somewhere to be, or possibly eager to get home. Watson stares at the man, who glances their way in passing, as people often do when they near someone they don't know.

He looks tired. Lifeless. He's more of a ghost than the Great War casualty has felt himself being in years.

And he is a spitting image. His appearance is so uncanny that, for a moment, Watson has to look away from the man. The only differences are, perhaps, the limp, and maybe a few years – he looks about thirty-seven – and maybe his haircut and the shape of his chin. But other than those slight things, he could very well be the soldier's twin.

"John? John Watson!" Mike calls out as soon as he recognizes the limping stranger, and for a split second, the ghost looks instead, panicked that his invisibility fell away; but no, Mike is looking in the direction of the man, and John has to clear his throat and stand to keep himself from reacting too strongly. But the center of his chest leaps, a strong jerk nearly tipping him forward; that thread again, like it does before he disappears. And yet he isn't falling into blackness as he usually does. How perplexing. What does it mean?

The man stops and half-turns, puzzled and almost annoyed, as if he would rather be invisible to the world with the way he feels. It strikes home with John, and he has to steel himself before he slips up and says something aloud.

He walks up behind Stamford and gets a better look at his descendant. Which is all this man can possibly be, because the name and appearance fit perfectly, and it would be wrong if he weren't related to the specter.

"Stamford," Mike introduces. "Mike Stamford? We worked together at Bart's."

Recognition appears on the other John's face, and he gives a stiff nod, and holds out his hand. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike; hello."

"I know, I know; I've gotten fat," Mike jokes, making up for how this John most likely didn't recognize him.

"No…" John says politely, but his face gives him away; it's exactly the reason why he only glimpsed at Stamford and didn't stop walking until his name was called.

"So I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," Stamford tests, as if he knows the ghost is behind him, bringing up past conversation. "What happened?"

John makes a face that the ghost knows all too well. He glances down at his leg and looks away for a second. "…I got shot." His voice is deadpan, but he forces a smile. It must be why he limps, then, and why he's not currently in service, Watson deduces. Of course, he's sure he's wrong somehow; were Sherlock here, he'd be much better at making deductions about this other John.

Minutes later, the two have coffee and get to chatting, and that's about all Watson can handle. Especially as Mike mentions, "Can't afford London, but couldn't stand to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

And hearing the other John reply tensely, "I'm not the John Watson y–" before cutting himself off and switching hands on his coffee (he has a tremor, and a bad one. Post-traumatic stress disorder. They didn't have a word for it in Watson's day, but he's read up on a lot of things since meeting Sherlock, and this one is as evident as the sky being blue). Well, it makes the ghost wonder a little. It makes him wonder if they aren't indirectly talking about him.

Seeing this John behave so much like he himself has acted in the past, and the fact that he's _also_ left-handed and even the sound of his _voice_ is similar… Well, it throws Watson off. It gives him odd vibes of the déjà vu sort, but not quite, and it's unsettling. He doesn't bother to listen much to their conversation; he's too estranged by watching what almost feels like himself sit and drink coffee and talk.

So he takes his leave. He knows that Mike planned on introducing Sherlock and Watson to this modern John if he ever met him again, and seeing as he has, the spook deems it all right to go ahead and leave the pair to themselves. His goal was reached, anyway; he saw the other John Watson with his own eyes, and that's enough for one day.

Watson heads to St. Bart's, then, because it's where he knows Sherlock will be. He's never gone there himself while Sherlock's been there, but he figures that now is as good a time as any. Be he won't mention what he's seen; he'll wait for that to progress naturally.

.:0:.

When John arrives, Sherlock is in the morgue, beating a dead body with a horse crop to study post-mortem bruising (apparently because a man's innocence depends on it, Sherlock relays soon enough). A girl comes in, and at first, John doesn't know why she feels so much like an old friend. And then Sherlock says her name.

Molly.

John makes himself visible to them both, and Molly jumps, startled at the sudden appearance of another person in the room, and Sherlock follows her gaze. "Oh. Hello, John. Back from your ten-day excursion?" and he smiles.

"John!" Molly exclaims, and she looks overjoyed, so much so that it throws the ghost off a bit. She turns away from Sherlock to come over to the spook and give him a hug. He chuckles and wraps his arms loosely around her. "It's been years! I never thought I'd see you again, I thought you just – What are you doing here?" and she's grinning and flushed. She grew to be more lovely than she was as a teenager.

"How do you two know one another? Clearly you met during one of the gaps in time where we were apart, John, but which one?" Sherlock remarks, tone measured and maybe a tad jealous, if John didn't know better.

"Oh! Um, you see, I-I was visiting my grandmum's grave when I was sixteen, and John was there, and, um –" Molly begins, stuttering and moving to play with her ponytail.

John brings his gaze to Sherlock. "It was when you were about nineteen, the time I returned and you were already at university. I met her at the cemetery, and we got to talking. I wished her well, and it seems my wishes worked; you're precisely where you told me you wanted to be, Miss Hooper. I'm very happy for you." And he turns that gaze on her, smiling lightly.

She blushes further and grins as she looks between the two men. "Thank you, John. And, um, Sherlock, I wondered if… I mean, when you were finished –"

"Are you wearing lipstick?" Sherlock cuts in over jotting something down in a notebook of his. John looks to Molly's mouth, and, sure enough, her lips do look invitingly red. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I-I, uh… refreshed it a bit," she supplies. She clears her throat and glances quickly at John, as if for confidence. Her tone is surer as she asks, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"

John blinks. Molly fancies Sherlock, and it's adorable and sweet, but misplaced. He feels suddenly awful and dreadfully sorry for her, because he knows that Sherlock either isn't going to get the hint, or he will, and he's going to reject her, and John is going to hate seeing it happen.

"Ah, yes. Black, two sugars, please; I'll be upstairs." And he turns to leave for, what John assumes, is the lab on the upper floor of the hospital.

He literally watches Molly deflate, yet take it in stride. "Right… okay," Molly murmurs, and she looks pleadingly at the ghost as the door closes behind Sherlock. "That didn't go over well, did it?"

And he doesn't have the heart to tell her why, so he just offers a tight smile. He pats her arm. "Better luck next time." And, hopefully, 'next time' won't be with Sherlock Holmes.

He leaves then, choosing to take the lift with Sherlock. As the doors close just behind him, John hears Sherlock say, "You are too kind, John. It's best not to encourage her; it will only make her upset when her advances fail again."

John chooses to ignore most of that, as well as how Sherlock guessed that he said, since he was clearly out of earshot when it was exchanged. "So you know, then, how she feels about you?"

"It's a small crush. She'll get over it, I'm sure," Sherlock replies simply. "She'll move onto another man by next week. It's only the mystery of me that holds allure for her. Once that fades, so will her feelings." He slides his notebook into his pocket. "Now, then: where have you been for the past week and a half? Unlike living people, I can't make speculations based on the dirt or grime on your clothing. You'll just have to tell me."

"You might find out soon enough," Watson murmurs as the lift pings and the metal doors glide open. He steps out first, and the genius sends him a look.

"It's not like you to be vague," Sherlock says. "Something happened. You saw something, discovered something. What was it?" There's the briefest of pauses before Sherlock exclaims, " _Ohh,_ I see, now! – It was your look-alike, wasn't it? You went out in search of him, you found him, and he must have met up with Stamford, because you say 'soon enough' as though you expect Stamford will introduce us to him soon, like he said he would if he came across your descendent."

"…Sometimes I hate that you're so brilliant, do you know that?" John counters, because Sherlock can't begin to understand how he feels about all of this. Because John himself doesn't even understand how he feels. He's awash with so man conflicting emotions that it's just about turning his spirit numb from sensory overload.

And, naturally, Sherlock misses some of this even as it registers on Watson's face. He catches only what he understands, which is confusion. He frowns as they walk together down the corridor. "I am aware. But what I am not aware of is what troubles you so much about this. Personally, I find it intriguing, and worth a bit of study, if not something more. What are the chances, honestly? I'm eager to meet someone who most likely is a lot like you and yet completely separate from you without being a mythical 'reincarnation' of sorts."

"That's precisely what bothers me," the ghost snaps, stopping on his heel and staring desperately into Sherlock's eyes. "I don't know what will become of me amidst all of this. I feel this… this intense _pull_ nagging on me, growing with each day, bringing me closer to something entirely unlike anything I've encountered before, and it _frightens_ me, Sherlock. What if I am nearing my end on this Earth, once and for all? Where will that leave you?"

Sherlock stops outside the laboratory doors and, with a flash of emotion, reveals something horrorstricken. It's something John never wants to see on Sherlock's face ever again. But as soon as it came, it's wiped clean, and Sherlock says lowly, "I have always managed myself when you've gone."

"But this time will be permanent, and…" the soldier goes rigid, taking air into his form to keep himself cool. "And I don't want to leave you alone," he admits quietly.

Sherlock's hands are instantly on him, touching his face. Physically, he is only a few small years older than the ghost was at death, but in this instant, he looks that much older, matured and worn, and it makes Watson ache inside. "You won't."

And he doesn't elaborate, and somehow, Watson is glad for this, because he isn't sure he wants to hear why or how he won't leave Sherlock alone. He shudders at the possibilities it could imply, and, knowing how unpredictable Sherlock Holmes is, he'd rather not know which implication is the one he means.

So John merely nods, and Sherlock gives one of his falsely reassuring smiles, and his hands drop from the ghost's face, making him feel suddenly ice cold.

They walk into the lab and Sherlock begins gathering up his things and going about his task, a long dropper in his hands that he holds over a petri dish, dripping measured liquid onto the substance inside of it.

John relaxes his form and permits himself to grow transparent for a while, before melting into the backdrop completely, silently watching Sherlock work. Sherlock seems not to take any notice or care, trusting that John is still in the room.

There is a knock at the door. Sherlock doesn't say a thing, merely waits for the person to enter, and for a moment, Watson thinks it must be Molly with the coffee.

He's wrong.

Already it's Mike Stamford, and, closely in tow, the other John Watson.

"Hmm. A bit different from my day," the limping man remarks. Mike wears a sort of knowing smirk on his face, nodding and amused.

Sherlock glances up, stares a bit too long at the other John before returning his gaze to his task. "John, you might as well show yourself. Stamford did mean for _both_ of us to meet him."

And the other John frowns, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He cocks his head, "Sorry, what?"

"Not you," Sherlock says tonelessly. He looks to the corner of the room, and Watson stiffens before slowly permitting his body to become visible again. "Him. Say hello to John, John." And he chuckles to himself as he watches the reaction of a final droplet on the petri's substance before standing up straight.

"Hullo. I'm… Captain John Hamish Watson II," the spook announces as formerly as possible, his hands clasping behind his back. "It's a pleasure to meet part of the family."

There is the startling and distinct sound of a cane falling sideways to the floor, clanking and rolling side to side for a moment before settling with a brief rattle of metal on tile. And then silence, broken only by Mike's smile and Sherlock's throat-clearing.

"Hmm, well. Now that we've gotten that out of the way… Mike, may I use your phone? Mine's got no service."

They appear to be the only two undisturbed people in the room, as they have nearly every right to be. "What's wrong with the landline?" Mike poses.

"I prefer to text," Sherlock answers casually, giving a shrug.

The other John slowly picks his jaw off of the floor with an audible click Watson can nearly feel. "Y… You can use mine," he says, voice raspy and growing stronger as he finds his voice again.

Watson can't say the same for himself.

John keeps his eyes on his ghostly counterpart, gaze only breaking long enough to pass his phone securely into Sherlock's awaiting hand, and then his eyes are right back on Watson, and he hobble-steps around Sherlock to get a closer look.

Before he can say anything, Sherlock cuts him to the quick. "Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

"Excuse me?" the other John explodes. "Did you tell him about me?" he says, pivoting to look at Mike.

"Not a word," Mike grins, clearly highly amused by all of this. Fuck him, the modern John's face seems to reply.

He shakes his head and throws his hands up in the air, plaid shirt and jacket making too-loud shuffling sounds as he does so. "Can we talk about the bloody elephant in the room instead? Like the fact that a _doppelganger_ is standing just there?" he says heatedly, pointing and nearly flailing. "How is this even possible? He looks exactly like me!"

"Not quite," Sherlock cuts in. "There are many distinct differences, if you care to observe them. The most obvious being, of course, clothing. Note the uniform, for example; what time period is it from?"

"World War I," the other John says immediately. "I'd know it anywhere. It's… it's the same as the photo my mum keeps of my great-granddad. But how…? He's been dead for decades!" he sputters. "He can't possibly be –"

"I am," Watson murmurs, feeling so unbearably small. "Until I met Sherlock and he did a bit of research on me, I didn't know that my wife was pregnant. I thought my genes and family name wouldn't carry on, given I only had a sister. But here you are."

"Sister," the living of the two repeats faintly. " _Jesus._ Her name was Harriet, like mine. We were named after you two. My mother told us so. She respected our family history, and –" he shakes his head again and places his fore head in his palm as if his head were made of lead and couldn't be held up any longer without assistance. "Oh, this is marginally fucked up."

"I agree," Watson says with a hysteric huff of a laugh. He feels unstable. He tries to keep himself together; Sherlock here is the only one who would be unsurprised if Watson suddenly shifted in appearance, but it might terrify Stamford and this other John.

Molly comes in then with coffee, at first appearing normal. "Here you are," she mumbles to Sherlock.

"Ah, the coffee. Thank you, Molly," Sherlock remarks as easy as if this entire ordeal were no different to him than a light drizzle coming and going.

Molly smiles and looks around, finally, and when her eyes land on the two soldiers standing near one another, she nearly topples over. She blinks with owlish eyes and looks frantically between Sherlock and the uncanny pair. "…What did I miss? Wh… Why are there two Johns?"

"The living one you are unfamiliar with is our ghost friend's great-grandson, Molly," Sherlock explains with a sigh as he sends a text and promptly hands back the formerly mentioned John's mobile phone. "Clearly."

"…Clearly," Molly murmurs, and she blinks again before tilting her head, mouth opening as if to say something else before she yips and shuts it. "You know, never mind. I'll just… get back to work. Oh, gosh," she adds as she turns and hurries out of the room. She pauses at the door to give a small partial-curtsey, head dipping and legs crossing as she turns. "Um. It was nice to meet you…"

"John Watson," the living of the two says with a sigh.

"…Right," Molly says with a laugh, leaning against the door. "I should have known. Goodbye, then." And she shakes her head and leaves, side-ponytail bouncing.

"Poor girl," Mike remarks. "She must be so confused."

"That makes two of us!" John bursts, and he gestures at the ghost beside him. "Seriously, is no one going to –"

"It's hardly important at the moment. What we should be discussing is our flatshare," Sherlock states as he takes up his coat and slides it on, test apparently finished during the commotion. He leaves the mess for Molly (or someone else) to tidy up, however. "I play the violin when I think, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about one another."

"I… Who said anything about being flatmates?" the other John continues, utterly bewildered at this point, like being sucked into a vortex. Watson doesn't blame him; he feels muddled himself.

"Mike did. Or, rather, I mentioned needing one to him, and since I get along so well with the captain behind you, Mike deemed it only appropriate to mention how he knew you, John, and we agreed that if he ever got the chance to meet you again, he might as well introduce us, at the very least," Sherlock relays quickly as he does up his scarf and the first two buttons of his coat. "Problem?"

" _Yes_ ," John hisses. "We only just met, we hardly know a thing about one another, I don't even know your _name,_ my bloody great-grandfather is in the room, and you're on about getting a _flat_ together?"

"Well, yes, of course," Sherlock says as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "That is what this is about. Your deceased relation is hardly related to the fact that I need someone to help pay the rent for this darling place I know of in central London. Together we could afford it, I'm sure, and if you are anything like him," Sherlock says with a jerk of his head in the ghost's direction, "Then we should get along swimmingly, and it shouldn't be a big deal."

"…All right, okay, I get _that,_ " John says with an exasperated exhale and a pinch between his eyes, "But who even _are_ you?"

Sherlock, at this point, is nearly at the door. He smiles and glances back. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. See you at seven sharp tomorrow evening. Good day," he says with a wink, and then he's out the door.

John looks to Mike, and then back at Watson.

"Yeah," Stamford chuckles, "He's always like that. You get used to it." he frowns slightly. "Well, sort of." And he looks amused by that.

John shakes his head in defeat. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"Nothing yet," Watson finally pipes up, louder and clearer now that Sherlock is out of the room. "But it's nothing a Watson can't handle."

"I hope you're right," John sighs, and he scrubs his scalp for a moment prior to letting out a long breath. He turns and offers his hand. "It was… er, surprising to meet my namesake, but… but not bad."

"Likewise," the specter replies honestly, shaking his relation's hand. "Less surprising for me; I knew it was going to happen, but that didn't make this any less… _staggering_."

John gives a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well. I wish Mike would have warned me." He turns and shoots a glare the portly man's way.

"Hey," Mike offers, raising his hands in surrender, "I wanted you to form your own opinions, mate."

"Fair enough, I guess," John says, clutching his bad leg as he reaches for his cane. "Can't wait to tell Harry about the day I've had. Wonder if she'll even believe me."

"She might," Mike muses as the two head out of the room. "But I can't say I would 'nless I saw it with my own eyes."

Watson hangs back a moment longer. Something is building right before his eyes, but like a drawing being made in stages, the picture is unclear until the final strokes of the pencil are made.

.:0:.

"Mycroft, are you tryingto put your nose in business it doesn't belong? _Again_?" Sherlock remarks coldly the following night. It's late, very late, quite nearly the next day, and much has happened.

A serial killer, a pink suitcase, rapid deductions made in taxi cabs and at crime scenes, a dinner at Angelo's, a psychosomatic limp cured, suicide pills, and a shooting.

It's one shock blanket and conversation later that Watson is fully caught up on the whole situation. He was told to remain at the flat, and really only present for the "drugs bust" tidbit and Sherlock leaving to take a cab. The drugs thing has his worked up enough; he can only assume that anything Sherlock did in the past was during one of his absences, and he'd rather not think about it. Still, there is the issue at hand: what the fuck happened in the last hour since Sherlock left the flat, alone.

Apparently, it's the cabbie who was the serial killer, and amidst the chaos, he tried to get Sherlock to choose between two pills, and if it weren't for living John's instincts and worries, Sherlock would be dead, and the cabbie wouldn't be.

And, apparently, sometime earlier in the evening, living-John was taken by Mycroft and had a stern talking to. And that's what has Sherlock so irritated in this moment.

"I merely looking out for your best interests, dear brother," Mycroft returns, undeterred.

" _Brother_?" John clarifies. He snorts. "Ah, now, see, that explains things."

"Mycroft, what are you up to this time?" Watson echoes Sherlock's initial question, and the older gentleman looks slightly ruffled this time.

"Obviously this isn't healthy. This man is your spitting image, John, and in a lot of ways, a lot like you. Doesn't it strike a nerve that he's moving in with Sherlock and already solving crimes with him?" Mycroft interjects.

"Not at all," Watson lies bluntly. He straightens his posture defensively and shakes off the implications. "It feels like it was meant to happen. And frankly, I wouldn't trust Sherlock with anyone else." And these two things, least, are the truth. If anything, his spiritual guide has been telling him as much about the former, and the latter is his genuine opinion. If there were any person on this Earth besides himself who Watson could trust to be a good friend to Sherlock, it's this man. He's seen it already, from the second the flat was shown to the other John and even now, in the aftermath of a potentially dangerous case.

"Fine," Mycroft retorts after a pause. "I'll leave you to your late meal, then." And he turns and swings his umbrella with him as he heads for his car.

"I can't eat, so I'll meet you both back at the flat," Watson says mildly.

"See you later, John," Sherlock says as the ghost walks away. He sends him a fleeting look, something faintly concerned and tender, and if the doctor beside the detective notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.

.:0:.

They are the sole people in the restaurant, it only being open for them, on account of a favor the own feels he owes Sherlock. A lot of people, John notes, know Sherlock Holmes, and feel indebted to him due to some case or another the consulting detective aided them with. And a lot of them, oddly, involve establishment owners.

"Alright, you have to tell me: does my great-granddad haunt our flat, or is he just following you around? How long have you known him, anyway?" John wants to know.

Sherlock's lips quirk into a smile. "Since I was a child. He haunts nowhere, although he often returns to his gravesite, it being the final resting place of his body, which he is obviously no longer physically attached to, but still emotionally attached to, which keeps him tethered to it. He is emotionally attached to me as well, since I have known him for a little over two decades, which means, yes, he does follow me around. But I don't mind; he is a good friend to me."

"…A good friend," John clarifies with a pursing of his lips. "He's not…" He hesitates, and Sherlock raises a brow. "What you said earlier, about girlfriends not being 'your area,' and boyfriends being 'not too off-base'… You didn't mean…?"

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down at the menu. "I'm thinking of getting dumplings to start. And perhaps some iced green tea. What about you?"

"There you go again; deflecting, as Ella would call it," John accuses.

"Your therapist would refer to everything as 'deflecting.' It's her job. I, however, am not doing that; I am changing the topic." Sherlock responds cheekily.

"You have feelings for him, huh? God, that's – that's kind of backwards, Sherlock," John says in a high voice. He coughs into his hand and looks away. "I mean. He's _dead._ And you're sharing a flat with his great-grandson."

"I have always deviated from the norm," Sherlock answers smoothly, his face carefully composed. "Why should be relationships, platonic or otherwise, be any different?" He folds his menu and lays it flat on the table. "I see how it might make you feel, but it's nothing to be concerned about. It won't affect however our relationship evolves."

"No?" John inquires, leaning back in his booth seat. "I dunno if you've noticed, but he and I are kind of alike. You might start blurring the lines, and –"

"I would never," Sherlock says instantly, his tone cross. A frown puckers his brows for a moment. "You don't know me yet, Dr. Watson, and as you get to know me, you'll see that I am a man who continually keeps his facts straight. And the fact is, while I admittedly harbor feelings for him, he is not you, you are not him, and it will always be that way no matter how things progress. You and I are flatmates, colleagues; sooner or later, I imagine, we might even be friends. But anything else is pointless to think about because it isn't fact."

Calmed, Sherlock hails the only working waitress and places his order. At a bit at a loss, John does the same, and they eat mostly in silence, breaking it only for inconsequential topics of conversation that all end in further discomfited silence.

.:0:.

John goes immediately to bed when they get home, and Sherlock stays up awhile, checking e-mail.

"How did it go?" Watson asks as he sits down beside Sherlock on the sofa and crosses his transparent legs. "Friends yet?" and he's smiling a little; forcing it, Sherlock notes.

Sherlock licks his lips, pursing them, and shuts his laptop lid. He peers over at the ghost before angling his body toward him. "He's uncomfortable."

"With us?" and to that, he receives a nod from Sherlock. His lips go into a straight line before he asks, "What did you tell him? Because I suspected as much, the way he glanced at me when he passed by to go to his room upstairs…" the spook seems to sigh. He scratches at his hairline beneath his cap, even though it does nothing for him. Habit. Something to do with his hands, Sherlock notes further.

"He needn't know detail. I merely told him that I harbor feelings for you, which is the truth, and he took it poorly."

"I don't blame him!" Watson scoffs, almost laughing. He shakes his head. "Sherlock, how would you feel if, say, I'd just met you, and I happened to already be involved with a relative of yours who looked nearly identical to you? Any saner person would have been too baffled and mortified to carry on, and would have left. It's a wonder he's sticking around."

"He enjoys what I do, what we can do together. He'll stay because he needs the place to live, he likes Mrs. Hudson already, and he wants to continue to be a part of the crime solving unit we've become," Sherlock returns matter-of-factly. "That's why he will stick around. The location is ideal for any job he might look into at Bart's in the future, anyhow." He pauses, glances down at his hands. "And he's awed by me. You should have heard him. He complimented me, John. Called me brilliant, fantastic, extraordinary; to name a few. And you know how few people say that. They normally hate me for it, tell me to piss off whenever I make a deduction about them. But he didn't." And he looks back then, marvel shining bright in his eyes, and suddenly, something clicks.

The ghost would swallow if he could. He certainly feels too dry, and somewhat chilled more than usual. He breaks eye contact and uncrosses his legs, feet planting firmly on the wooden floor, making no sound whatsoever as his shoe heels touch bottom. He toes the edge of the rug, and it hardly budges. "That's wonderful, Sherlock. I couldn't ask for anything else."

Sherlock blinks. He picks up a pillow and throws it, watching it pass through his companion. "Why do you keep lying to me like that? I know it triggers something in you as well. What is it with you two? It's not nearly as complicated as you're both making it!"

"Actually, it _is_ ," Watson whispers. The soldier casts his gaze to Sherlock, appearing very opaque, for once, his colors more vibrant than usual, as though someone took an image of him and turned up the saturation levels on Photoshop. "I can't stay here, Sherlock. I realize that now."

Sherlock goes rigid. "What do you mean, you can't stay?" He regains his usual demeanor and shrugs. "Are you disappearing again for a few years? That's nothing new. You do that often enough that I'm used to it. And I have this John, now, to keep me entertained for the time being. I can wait until you return."

"No," Watson says, head shaking, and yes, there it is: his soul feels like it's weeping, all aches and shudders inside. He prays it doesn't look that way on his face. He hates phantom tears; he can't feel them if he makes them. "I mean that… for the longest time, I've been wandering, trying to figure out why I couldn't pass on. And then I met you, and you made me think: ah, maybe it's because I haven't seen any of my family, haven't been able to tell them about me and all that has happened."

"But," Sherlock voices the yet unspoken implication.

" _But_ ," the spook replies guardedly, "Now I think it's something else. I think, like all the other ghosts I've aided over the years when I've left London, before and after I've met you, I've stayed because my reason for being a ghost has changed. I helped them realize what's changed or what needs to be fixed, and I've neglected myself, because, for so long, I was content to stay here as long as it meant seeing you again, watching you grow and mature and become the great man you are today. But now I have a replacement, the right one, the one I think has been planned for you by some higher power for years now, and I was meant to lead you to him."

"…That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock says, his voice quiet and unreadable. "Perfectly illogical. And I told you, he isn't a replacement, and never will be. You two are very different, despite what each of you think. I see those differences with startling clarity, and I have preserved them in my memory bank. I won't confuse either of you, despite your names and physical traits. I thought you, at least, would understand that better than he. What's gotten into you?"

"More sense than you can understand," Watson remarks. He looks around the living room, admiring his gift from years past hanging proudly on the way, properly lit, and the familiar skull placed on the mantle. He admires, too, the landlady's tasteful wallpaper and paint choices, and Sherlock's personal touches of books and chairs and lab equipment. He smiles. "It's something spiritual. And that has never been your forte, no matter how much you've tried to study me."

"I could keep studying," Sherlock adds almost pleadingly. "You can help me understand."

"No, you have to come to it all on your own one day, I think," the other responds wistfully. He looks at Sherlock, really looks, and he sees the ten-year-old boy lingering in there somewhere. He sees the young teenager who was suspicious of foul play when he read in the papers in the late eighties about a boy drowned in a pool. He sees the adventurer who wanted to be a pirate. He sees the lonely genius who wanted more than an audience to his smarts; the lonely genius who wanted a friend. Just one, just to be less alone.

He sees a grown man with a unique job title he created on his own, all his own, for the sole purpose of justly using the great capacity of his incredible mind. He sees, too, a lover he wasn't meant to have, not in full. It isn't his place.

And he sees, now, that he has a decision to make, and maybe, just maybe, after this whirlwind of a night, he might be ready to make it.

"I owe you so much, Sherlock," Captain John Watson relays softly, pressing one knee into the couch cushion between them to reach out for Sherlock's long face. "And I like to think I gave you something in return, through all of this."

"John, you're making me anxious. I don't like this. Why are you speaking this way?" the genius says in rapid succession, his words nearly blending together. His hands try to grasp John's, but they fall through. He can't feel that cool air, that almost misty, mirror-like texture. He can't feel John at all.

And Watson looks so bright, like an angel. His colors are as intense as they would be if he were alive. There is peach in his skin, pink in his cheeks, rich blue in his eyes with fleck of golden brown around the pupils. His British army uniform is intense against the backdrop of the modern flat, and he's shining and blinding and Sherlock's eyes are straining to adjust to the whole scene.

There is a kiss he sees coming and doesn't feel as Watson presses it to his forehead, in the part made by his bangs, and just above the small beauty mark Sherlock knows is right along the top of his left eyebrow. He pulls back, standing now, or hovering just above ground; Sherlock can't tell. He's too mesmerized by the specter's face.

It's genuinely accepting. Not quite smiling, not quite sad. It's a balance between the two, this expression, and it's much like how Sherlock feels about death: he accepts it wholly with no qualms or fears.

"Get to know him, my great-grandson. And let him see every side of you, as I have. Maybe try to come to love him. I don't know in what way; that can be left up to you. But I ask that you try not to think about me; use the time you had with me to feel comfortable with him. He's meant to be here, with you, alive and solid and as protection in more ways than one. Not me," Watson tells Sherlock firmly, but gently.

"You're passing on. This is your final goodbye. You're leaving me permanently." Sherlock states flatly, his face and tone and eyes steeled. He inhales and exhales slowly, eyes flickering but not blinking. They're tearing up. "I don't understand. Why now, so soon? I…" And he searches for something to say that will get the army doctor to stay here, something to tie him down. "I love you."

"I'm all you've ever known. That's hardly fair," John croaks, dimming for a split second, making Sherlock's heart flutter.

"You can't do this. I'm too attached, and it's your fault," Sherlock adds, thinking on his feet, but not daring to stand. He clenches the fabric of his trousers over his knees tightly.

"No, Sherlock," he replies softly. He's growing fainter, his voice sounding like it's meters and meters away. "The pull is too strong now that I'm realized what's been keeping me here all this time, what I was waiting for. I was waiting for him to come along, to be what I have been for you, and more. So now I have to go. You have to let me go. It's for the best."

"No. No, it's not," Sherlock pleas, and he never pleas. He stands on trembling legs. "Because you _are_ all I've known. And think of all the people who will remember you aside from me: Molly, Mycroft, Stamford, John. They won't forget. So neither shall I."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," is all Watson says in return. He closes his eyes. In a flash as overwhelming as a neutron star collision, he's vanished into thin air.

Sherlock stumbles backward onto the sofa, eyes wide, and a single tear slipping out by default.

He grips the leather and wipes at his cheek.

He blinks. His mind feels wiped clean of thought, like a white erased board.

When he looks up, John is standing there.

"Are you okay?" he asks, confusion and concern laced together in a perfect medley on his face. He feels safe, like a friend Sherlock forgot he could lean on.

"Yeah, everything's… fine." He blinks again, and something is in his vision, like when one stares into a light for too long and after it goes off, he can blink and still see the shape of it. It looks like a person, a vague apparition. "I must have dozed off; I just had a nightmare, I believe. It's nothing."

"Nightmare? I'd imagine! You nearly died tonight, you idiot," John says, moving to sit down beside the dark-haired man. He awkwardly pats his back in a manner that's meant to be soothing. "Come on, off to your own bed for some proper rest; doctor's orders."

"I don't think it was about the cabbie," Sherlock murmurs as John guides him through the flat to his own room. "I… I don't remember what it was." It could have been about John; it feels like it might have been. Perhaps he dreamt of himself and John in opposite places? John about to take the pill, Sherlock holding the gun? He isn't positive of anything. He feels dazed, as if he blinked and woke from a coma.

"Well, it's good that you've forgotten it, then. Nightmares are never pleasant to remember," John says with a shrug.

"I thought you went to bed?" Sherlock comments idly as John flips on the bedside lamp and tugs back the covers of Sherlock's bed.

"I did. But I dunno, I suddenly woke up thought I ought to come check up on you, make sure you got some rest. Call it my medical instincts," he jokes without much humor. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, um… I'll leave you to, y'know, get into your pajamas and into bed. G'night, mate." And he turns to leave, but Sherlock catches his elbow. "Yeah?" John asks.

Sherlock blinks. He can't remember what he had been about to say; that's a first. He releases him. "Goodnight," he says instead.

John smiles. "Goodnight, you nutter." And he turns and closes Sherlock's bedroom door behind him.

Settling down into bed, Sherlock drifts off to sleep after roughly six minutes.

.:0:.

.:0:.

.:0:.

.:0:.

John feels as though it's his duty to guard Sherlock Holmes with his life. It might be because no one else will; it might be because he knows Sherlock would do the same for him. It might even be his instincts, as a trained solider, and as a doctor, to protect and serve.

But John likes to think it's solely because Sherlock Holmes is the best friend he's ever had, and ever will have.

.:0:.

About a year after meeting Dr. John Hamish Watson III (a family name, although Sherlock never much saw the point in naming children after their father and grandfathers and the like so thoroughly; it borders on ridiculous), Sherlock realizes that he might feel something akin to love for this person.

It feels warm and familiar, loving John Watson; it feels like Sherlock has done it his whole life, although that's absurd, because obviously he hasn't. But it feels right, and he permits himself to let it be.

And it's about another six months later that Sherlock is placed into the worst situation the pair of them have ever been in. He's gotten into some sticky ones in the past – John's been mistaken for Sherlock by a Chinese smuggling ringleader and nearly killed; Sherlock has been nearly strangled by the Golem; John has been strapped to bombs; Sherlock and John have both had guns aimed at them – but none have been as bad as this.

A lie about Moriarty being a hired actor, making Sherlock a fraud; and John, along with everyone else, being under the scope of snipers' rifles.

So Sherlock gladly takes the plunge, having a plan in mind, because he is, in fact, not heartless. Moriarty was right in that respect, at least. And Sherlock will be damned if he lets his heart be burned out of him.

But as he takes the fall, he swears that he sees John there alongside him, clad in a nearly century old army uniform, a woeful expression on his face.

His eyes must be playing tricks on him.

He fakes his death, feels John's warm, trembling hand on his wrist, taking his pulse; feels his pre-donated blood soaking his hair, coating the cobbled street below the hospital; and he forces himself not to blink.

The image of John doesn't fade, even long after Sherlock is carted away on a stretcher.

.:0:.

"…And I owe you so much," he hears John murmur to his empty grave. He does a very military-like nod and about-face, going to march off, but turns at the last second. "Oh, and there's just one more thing, Sherlock, one more thing, for me: Don't. Be. … _Dead._ Would you do that? Just… _stop this_."

He wishes he could. But he can't help but feel sick inside at those first words, 'I owe you so much.' They feel hauntingly familiar and they make Sherlock feel icy cold inside, the wind not withstanding as it sneaks into his coat whenever it can.

.:0:.

When he reveals himself again to John, the man swoons and nearly topples over. Sherlock catches him, stabilizes him. John twists and Sherlock feels a burst of pain as the doctor's fist connects with his jaw. He swallows, slowly turns to face John again, hands not leaving John's ribs.

"I deserve that."

"You bloody git," John mutters, "You deserve a hell of a lot more, putting me through all that. Jesus, I could have helped you! Why didn't you let me? I'll never forgive you for that, keeping me in the bloody dark." He sighs. "But… at least you're alive." He closes his eyes and looks genuinely relieved. He presses his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder and wraps his arms around him. "You deserve this, too. Even if you're a dick."

Sherlock smiles. He holds John just a little tighter than a friend would. If John notices, he doesn't mind.

.:0:.

They're a legendary duo, just like he knew they would be. He looks down at them from his place in the Beyond with a content smile.

"Mary," he says, turning to his wife and hugging her. Their son stands just off to the side of them, also contented. "I'm so sorry I forgot your name for so long."

"Are you still apologizing for that, John?" the woman answers with a chuckle. She shakes her head. "I told you: _it's fine._ It wasn't up to you. You had to forget me to make room for _this_ ," and she gestures down at tiny London on little Earth and its entire population, but especially the pair her husband is referring to. "And it all worked out. Like it was supposed to."

"Destiny in a strange thing," John remarks.

"Completely," his son agrees with an ironic laugh. "It wouldn't let me meet my own father until he finally moved on."

"But it still worked out," Mary reminds, giving their son a look. "We have all of eternity, now. And think of when they join us. We'll be one big, happy family, like so many here are."

"True enough," John agrees, touching her hair. It feels better than he remembers it being in life; it's purer, somehow. Everything here is simplified, pure; nothing hurts. There are no regrets, and if there were, they've been accepted and taken care of. And it's bliss, but not overly so; everything is balanced and righted, but not perfect, and that suits him just fine.

.:0:.

The funny thing about people is that they are remembered after death as they were known during life. But what happens if they are met after they have died? Can they be remembered?

They technically don't exist. They have already died, after all. Already crossed the bridge from the Living to the Dead.

So no matter who they meet, and no matter how long they stay, it's impossible whether or not to know if they were really there at all. Television crews like to take photos or make videos exploring haunted places, trying to expose the Dead, but in the end, no one remembers who they were. They're just spirits, fragments; nothing more.

But that doesn't mean they can't be renewed in some way in the future, at the end, between beginnings. Like an echo, people always come back to the source.


End file.
